


The Ways of War

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, Children, Coercion, Fantastic Racism, Grandchildren, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Loss of Virginity, Misogyny, Multi, Organized Crime, Past Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postpartum Depression, Slow Burn, Slut Shaming, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Violence, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, War, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate Finlay, the Man Out of Time, has taken command of the Gunners with the intention of burning the Institute to the ground and returning order to the Commonwealth as he knows best. If that necessitates brutality, then he has no problems with that.</p><p>Arthur Maxson, Elder of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel, understands that war requires uncomfortable moral compromises. If that means a temporary alliance with the Gunners and a man who hates the Institute as much as he does, then so be it.</p><p>The ways of war are harsh. And those who forget or ignore history are doomed to repeat it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ground into Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, child neglect, child abuse, child soldiers, past domestic abuse, drug/alcohol addiction, and animal cruelty. This AU is bleak AF and I apologise in advance. I’m so, so sorry.

 

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Lieutenant Clint said as he took a drag from his cigarette. “Garvey needs to learn when to quit.”

            Nate Finlay looked sideways at the Gunner in his cowboy hat. They were scouting Fort Independence, a fortified location across from the Brotherhood’s airship, because if there was anything Nate loathed more than most of humanity, it was being told not to interfere in anything by some asshole in a set of power armour. “Who’s Garvey?” the soldier asked.

            “Last of the Minutemen,” Clint responded. “Led the survivors of Quincy to the north and is now trying to get those ‘citizen soldiers’ up and running again.”

            “What is this, the History Hour?” Nate asked in annoyance. “The last time the Minutemen were relevant was during the War for Independence.”

            Clint nodded as he dropped the remains of his cigarette and ground it into the dirt. “Precisely, Major. The Castle’s prime territory and Garvey’s managed to talk enough farmers into supporting an attempt to retake it for the Minutemen. If he does that, he’s telling the Commonwealth that you can fuck with the Gunners and get away with it.”

            Nate cracked his knuckles. He’d been promoted to Major on recruitment after killing his way through most of a squad and then rescuing the last three Gunners from that Courser. But the current commander of the mercenaries was demanding to see him in action and so the pre-War soldier had taken a squad of troops north to do just that. “I want Jake’s job, Clint, because he’s a fucking short-sighted idiot. If I stomp this Garvey into the ground and take the Castle, would it happen?”

            The Lieutenant gave Nate the side-eye. “Can’t speak for the other officers but you’d have Tessa, Baker and me at your back. Jake’s been bitching at us because Garvey got away.”

            The Gunners were a brutal military outfit but no worse than the brigade Nate served in during the battles for Canada and Alaska. In fact, he appreciated the freedom of being able to operate without bureaucratic oversight because it meant he could get shit done without stepping on some desktop commander’s toes. “You know my ultimate goal is the Institute. They took my son and I’m going to make them regret it. Do you have a problem with the direction I’d take this army?”

            “Major, pull this off, and I’d follow you into hell.”

            Nate smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. Gather the soldiers. We’re going in for close-range recon.”

            On the way there, Clint explained that the Minutemen had fallen apart after mirelurks took over the Castle. It seemed he’d been one and given up in disgust after Ezra Hollis took command of the last brigade. He’d offered the Minutemen terms to surrender at Quincy and been refused, granting Hollis and his people the reward such idiocy deserved.

            If there was one thing the wars had taught Nate, it was that the best way to defeat an enemy was to stomp them into the mud until blood stained your boots. Clint had given up the chase too soon, which was why he’d stay a Lieutenant for a while yet. Jake thought only in terms of caps and looting, which led him to take on jobs that were a waste of the Gunners’ time. When in charge, Nate would need to rectify that.

            “Mirelurks are mean motherfuckers,” Tessa, who wore power armour and had been a raider, observed grimly as she peered through the tawny afternoon light. “Probably a queen one here too. But once dead, they’re damn good eating.”

            Nate nodded. “Then break out the heavy ordnance and bomb the fuck out of that courtyard. We can always repair shit like that radio tower later. Save the Fat Man and mini nukes for the queen.”

            “Yes, Major.” Tessa saluted and readied her missile launcher.

            The battle for the Castle was rough but no harder than some of the fights Nate had survived during the war. They lost a couple young recruits who got too close to the queen mirelurk but that was no great loss – after this victory, new soldiers would flood in. With the Minutemen dead, the young bucks would have no choice but to turn towards the Gunners or the Brotherhood.

            After purging the last of the mirelurk hatchlings with a flame thrower, Nate pried the cooked meat out of the shells and handed it out as rations for his soldiers. Tessa was a genius with a missile launcher and managed to keep the radio tower intact. If Clint was correct, they could coordinate the Gunners across the Commonwealth from this one location.

            “Once we’ve put Garvey and his farmers down, we’re going to open negotiations with the Brotherhood,” Nate announced as he chewed on charred crab meat. “We have no quarrel with them _yet_ and I suspect they’re here to deal with the Institute. The enemy of your enemy is your temporary ally of convenience.”

            Baker nodded, patching up a wound in his side. “Understood, Major. Besides, we only have three vertibirds and those assholes have several dozen. Until we’ve got something capable of taking down the Prydwen, we’d best be polite.”

            “And _this_ is why you’re on my squad,” Nate told the officer with a grin. “Jake’s a jumped-up raider leader and so are most of his officer picks. You lot, on the other hand, understand that a war requires patience, tenacity and a willingness to compromise short-term victory to achieve long-term goals.”

            Tessa frowned. “I know the Institute took your son, sir, but is it wise to take them on?”

            That was a fair question. “They used to be the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, a collection of pre-War eggheads. Sure, they have the Coursers and an army of synths, but they wouldn’t know tactics if we tattooed the idiot’s guide to them to their foreheads. I want to pummel them until they give me answers or my son. After that, their fate will depend on what happened to Shaun.”

            He nodded to the ragged Minutemen flag hanging from the flagpole. “Let’s focus on destroying the Minutemen once and for all. We’ll still need to consolidate control over the settlements before anything else. I want to control the entire west by the end of the month.”

            He pried another nugget of cooked crab from the hatchling’s shell with his combat knife and ate it. This wasn’t the world he wanted but it was going to be the one he’d wrestle to submission and make his own.

…

Green-hazel eyes, grim and merciless, stared down at Preston Garvey as a combat boot stomped onto his right hand until it felt like every bone was broken. The rest of the Minutemen he’d scrounged together from allied settlements were dead or dying, cut down by laser rifles before they even knew the Gunners were there. He coughed, tasting blood and bitter failure.

            “Stupid weapon, those muskets,” the Gunner major noted, skull-tattooed face coldly impassive. “But then, you Minutemen seem afflicted with idiocy.”

            “Can we just kill him already?” Clint asked with a sigh.

            “No. One tactic I learned during the Alaskan wars was to leave a solitary survivor.” The Major smiled and ground his boot into Preston’s right hand, drawing a cry of pain from the Minuteman. “Crippled, barely alive and unable to fight. We’d dump them at a nearby settlement as a warning to not fuck with the military. Wars are won with hearts and minds – we break our enemies before they even think to fight, we save a lot more lives in the long run.”

            “You’re… the Man Out of Time,” Preston wheezed, recalling Piper Wright’s report.

            “I am,” the Major confirmed. “The Commonwealth is a fucking wreck and no relic of a bygone era will save it.”

            “So why do you think you’ll win the war?” Preston managed to spit blood on the man’s faded fatigues. “Seeing as you’re one yourself.”

            The Gunner smiled. “Because I recall ways of war that the world has forgotten.”

            Then he stomped Preston’s right hand into a pulpy ruined mess. The Minuteman was barely conscious by the time the order was given to drag him to Bunker Hill and dump him in the main square as an example.

            Preston lost consciousness halfway there. When he regained consciousness, the smell of ozone, blood and ash surrounded him while a pale delicate face topped with a Brotherhood’s Scribe hat looked down. “He’s awake, Paladin,” she reported, looking over her shoulder.

            “Good.” The Paladin was a rugged, laser-burned man in power armour who clanked like can chimes in the wind. “What the hell happened to you, soldier?”

            “Gunners… Castle…” Preston gasped. “Killed… Minutemen. Left me… example.”

            “The Castle?” The Paladin frowned.

            “Across… bay. From… Prydwen.”

            The Paladin used words that were unbecoming of the commander he obviously was. “I’m calling in a vertibird. Haylen, give him another stimpak.”

            “Yes, Paladin Danse.” The Scribe looked down at Preston. “Sorry, this will hurt.”

            Preston’s mouth twitched into a smile despite the brutal circumstances. “More than… do now?”

            “Yes. Brotherhood stimpaks focus more on healing than pain relief.” Haylen jabbed him with the big needle and proved that yes, it managed to hurt despite the blinding agony Preston was already in. But he didn’t cry out.

            Danse fired a grenade that sent blue-grey smoke into the sky. Within minutes, a vertibird was touching down neatly between the ruined skyscrapers of lower Boston. “Rhys, help him up.”

            Much to Preston’s surprise, he found himself able to stand with the help of a stocky, dour-faced Brotherhood soldier with a scar on his nose. “You’re tough,” Rhys noted approvingly.

            “Won’t give… Gunners… satisfaction,” Preston wheezed.

            “Good man.” Rhys handed Preston up to Danse, who put him gently on the bench. Haylen climbed up next and sat down next to the Minuteman.

            The pain had dulled to an almost bearable level by the time the vertibird took off. Preston almost wished he was in a condition to appreciate the view. But it hit him that he’d failed the Minutemen _again_ – and the Gunners held their figurative centre. It had taken him months to get that force together and now a dozen people wouldn’t be going home. Their families would never trust in each other again. They’d divide into isolated communities, easy prey for raiders and the brutality of the Gunners.

            As they flew into the thick blue dusk, Preston wept as the dream of a united Commonwealth died.

…

The Minuteman was one tough soldier. Despite losing his right hand and showing signs of brutal torture, he’d remained conscious for the most part, provided critical military intelligence, and only collapsed once they were airborne. Star Paladin Danse could respect that kind of grit.

            Arthur Maxson waited for the report on the command deck, arms clasped behind his back, hard scarred face shuttered like the radstorm doors on the Citadel. “We just received radio contact from the Gunners,” the Elder reported. “They wish to discuss a temporary alliance.”

            “They tortured a man half to death, destroyed his weapon hand, and were dragging him to Bunker Hill as an example,” Danse said neutrally. “Is that the sort of ally we want?”

            “According to the records we were able to dig up, the Minutemen had artillery once, and the Gunners certainly have the technological capacity to reproduce or repair it,” Arthur pointed out flatly. “If you haven’t noticed, Paladin, we are a big target despite the Prydwen’s advantages.”

            “Fucking hell.” Danse allowed himself the use of choice language before the Elder.

            “Agreed.” Arthur turned to look over the harbour. “It appears Major Finlay lost a son to the Institute and wants payback. Today’s… action… was apparently a power play to impress the rest of the Gunners into supporting his bid to become their supreme commander.”

            “The enemy of my enemy,” Danse said. “But by the Steel, Arthur…”

            “I know.” Arthur looked over his shoulder and Danse saw the bleak acceptance of war’s necessities in those blue eyes. “I want that Minuteman to survive. I want him in the Brotherhood. I want him to understand that once the Institute lies in salted ashes, we will deal with the Gunners as they deserve. But I cannot fight a war on two fronts.”

            “Understood, sir.” Danse saluted. He wouldn’t want to be Elder for all the glory and honour in the world. “Ad Victoriam.”

            “Ad Victoriam.” Arthur returned the salute and turned back to the view.

            The Star Paladin cursed under his breath again and headed for the infirmary. He wished Arthur would leave the shitty jobs to someone else for a change.


	2. The Carrot and the Stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Please read the tags for all trigger warnings and tell me if I’ve missed any. I think my muse took a level in evil. I’m so sorry.

 

“The situation for synths in the Commonwealth just got a whole lot worse.”

            Desdemona leaned on the sarcophagus with her hands out, expression grim as she looked around at the Railroad’s ranking agents. “The Brotherhood of Steel has agreed to a truce with Major Finlay of the Gunners. Given the Man Out of Time’s recent exploits at the Castle, I don’t think I need to spell out just how dire our position is.”

            “Not just for the synths, Des,” Deacon said softly. “It’s gotten worse for everyone. The Minutemen are dead and even Jesus can’t bring them back.”

            “Deacon-“

            He cut the leader of the Railroad off with a chop of the hand. “Finlay was black ops, Des. That means everything we can do, he knows how to counter. His only saving grace is that he hates the Institute almost as much as Glory.”

            The synth heavy folded her arms. “What are you saying, Deacon?”

            “We translate the Courser chip for him. Amari’s gonna send him our way regardless.” Deacon’s mouth tasted like old ash but he forced the words out. “Then we fall back. We move Carrington, Drummer Boy, P.A.M and most of the agents to Fort Hagen now it’s been cleared. We secure the safehouses. And we hope to God that it’s enough. Me, Glory and Tom stay behind to greet this asshole when he comes knocking.”

            “The Institute probably wouldn’t expect us to return to the Switchboard,” Carrington noted with a sigh. “We need to reacquire things from there regardless of where we regroup.”

            Desdemona’s mouth pursed but how could she argue? The Minutemen, the one faction they might have been able to form an alliance with, weren’t just dead – the very idea of them had been burned, buried and the grave pissed on by the Gunners. The Brotherhood would come for the Railroad on principle because they were bigoted assholes. “I don’t like this,” she finally said.

            “None of us are exactly happy here, Des,” Deacon reminded her. “But the Commonwealth just got a kick to the teeth and we all have to deal.”

            “If the Gunners control the southwest and the Brotherhood the southeast, we’ve lost our best chance of smuggling synths out,” Carrington observed. “We’ll need to go north into Maine.”

            “At the moment, that will have to be the best option,” Desdemona said with a sigh. “Carrington, Drummer Boy, prepare everyone for evac. Deacon, shadow Finlay until you know the smell of his breath. Tom, do what you do best. Glory and I will set up defences.”

            The agents nodded and scattered to do their jobs. Deacon could only hope and pray that Finlay didn’t hate synths like the Brotherhood did. Because after what he did to the Minutemen just to gain control of the Gunners, the agent didn’t want to see what happened to someone the Major actually hated.

…

Once news got out that Nate took the Castle for the Gunners and established a truce with the Brotherhood of Steel, he was handed the leadership of the mercenary outfit on a platter. It was slightly disappointing – he’d been hoping for a bit more of a fight out of Jake – but he’d take what he could get. The former commander of the Gunners was assigned to clearing out all unauthorised raiders in their territory and salvaging those who could be turned into proper soldiers. Clint was dispatched to persuade the settlements to accept the status quo and send supplies in return for protection. Tessa was put on purging the predators in the area. Baker stayed at Nate’s side as a second in command.

            “We are better than raiders,” Nate said as he leaned on the table across from his new subordinates. “Raiders are like animals – they raid, rut and get high without any sense of the future. Most people don’t give a shit who’s in charge so long as they’re left alone in peace. Our enemies aren’t John and Jane Dirt-Grubber from Shithole Farm. We bring the raiders under control, we deal with the deathclaws and mirelurks, and John and Jane Dirt-Grubber from Shithole Farm will practically throw food and caps at us.”

            “Just like the Brotherhood are doing,” Major Avery, who ran the division on the eastern border, observed quietly.

            “Precisely. They were formed from the ashes of the same military I served in, though they were the power fist and I was the stiletto.” Nate nodded approvingly to the Major. They’d agreed on the title of Major-General for Nate, so as not to have him act like he was the replacement for the Minutemen’s leader. That shit needed to be buried deeper than bedrock.

            “Do you trust them?” Tessa asked. She had a habit of asking intelligent questions now she was outgrowing her raider ways.

            “Of course not. A Maxson’s a Maxson’s a Maxson, be it 2077 or 2287.” Nate had a bad history with Maxsons, though Arthur seemed rather more intelligent than his ancestor Nigel. “We do have a mutual enemy in the form of the Institute, however. You know why I want those assholes dead. And if we bring them down, the Commonwealth is ours.”

            “Can we do it?” Avery asked.

            “Remember what I said about the power fist and the stiletto?” Nate grinned when he saw the understanding dawn in the Major’s eyes. “Once I get a particular chip decoded and return to the Glowing Sea, I’ll have the back door key to the Institute. Who’s our science guy?”

            “We don’t have one,” Avery admitted with a chagrined expression.

            “By the time I come back from the Glowing Sea, I want one. Offer caps, incentives or whatever. If they won’t cooperate, find someone with a family and lean on them that way.” Nate pushed himself away from the table. “I’m not going to treat you like idiots and micromanage how you do shit. So long as it doesn’t jeopardise our operations, do what you must. No rape or unnecessary murder or torture, however. That shit just riles John and Jane Dirt-Grubber and will give the Brotherhood an excuse to turn on us.”

            Jake sighed. “Never saw it that way, Finlay.”

            Nate decided to be polite and not call his predecessor a fucking idiot, even though he was. “I used to think a lot like you until I got a very wise father-in-law who taught me how shit really worked. Most of you haven’t had the benefit of such wisdom. By the time I’m through, I hope you all realise that my way is the best path to prosperity for us all.”

            He met each of his subordinates’ eyes. “Showing no mercy has its place. But sometimes you catch more bloatflies with sugar. So no rape, no shaking down random farmers for more than half their produce, no shooting random settlers in the head. Make examples only of the most obstinate or those you think might be Minutemen, retired or wannabe. Clear out any raiders you find. Same with predators. If you can’t bring extra meat with you, give it to the civilians and they’ll worship the ground you walk on.”

            Nate smiled. “We’ve shown the stick at the Castle. Time to show the carrot.”

            Thanks be to Jesus, none of them argued. But his loyal three lieutenants had told the others precisely what he did to Garvey before having him dragged away. Shame the idiots assigned to the job provoked a Brotherhood patrol but Nate could let that go for the moment. Garvey was helpless and lacked credibility. Two dozen or more people were dead because of his decisions and Nate made sure the Commonwealth knew it.

            Nate turned away and looked over the expanse of the southern Commonwealth and the sickly glow of the Sea. He’d find Shaun or what happened to him. And if his son was dead, then the Institute would burn.

…

Sparrow Killian thought it was somewhere around late December or early January but without a Pipboy to give her the date and nuclear annihilation altering the weather patterns, she couldn’t be sure. The wind was bitter across the sere grey-brown landscape of the Commonwealth, cutting through the fleece-lined jacket she’d scavenged from a dead trader near Arcjet Systems, and her cheeks burned from the cold. A grey knitted cap hid most of her chestnut-brown hair, cropped a few weeks ago to deal with the radlice she’d picked up while camping in Concord, and the taste of radioactivity was on her tongue. It was always a choice to balance thirst against the rads and too often, the immediate need for survival overwhelmed the fear of sickening with radfever. Winter – or what passed for it now – was the lean season for itinerant labourers like she’d become. No crops were being harvested, resources were too stretched for a bit of generosity to a stranger in return for news from afar, and people kept close to their settlements since the destruction of the Minutemen.

            The obelisk of the Bunker Hill Monument towered above the walls of corrugated iron and plywood that guarded the settlement, representing safety from the terrors of the Wasteland. Caravans moved in all seasons and with a body toughened by weeks of hard physical labour, Sparrow could handle much of a common worker’s duties. She even knew how to coax a stubborn Brahmin thanks to the Abernathies who’d taken her in after Nate left her in the ruins of their old home.

            At the gates, a lanky older woman with curly blonde hair questioned the small line of travellers waiting to get into Bunker Hill. Most of them looked like minor traders and their guards with a sprinkling of Gunners in their distinctive khaki-green clothes amongst them. Everyone knew what happened to the Minutemen at the Castle by now. The fear of the crowd was almost palpable and Sparrow kept her head down to avoid trouble. Nate wanted nothing to do with her and _she_ didn’t want to come to his attention.

            “Trader or raider?” the woman asked each traveller. It appeared that no matter the answer, the gates would swing open and the person admitted; Bunker Hill accepted all comers with caps to spend.

            When she got to the Gunners, a trio of men led by one wearing a cowboy hat, the script changed. “Here to extort us?” the woman asked grimly, looking up at them.

            “It’s not extortion, Kessler. It’s ‘protection’,” Cowboy answered with a mock-sorrowful sigh. “We simply ask that the Gunners receive our due for protecting the trading routes.”

            “Take a discount like the Brotherhood do,” Kessler replied.

            “Oh no. Major-General Finlay prefers payment in caps or kind.”

            It was all Sparrow could do not to snort at Nate’s arrogance. He’d never gotten past Lieutenant before being honourably discharged from the military due to her mother’s influence.

            “The answer’s still no,” Kessler informed them. “Now get out of the way so legitimate travellers can enter.”

            Cowboy tsked. “That just means we have to start charging a toll to the travellers who enjoy our protection.”

            “Fine. Just don’t do it on my fucking steps.”

            Sparrow wasn’t on the steps and she was already pulling out half of her caps. The rest would need to go into a room and a meal, at least for tonight. Tomorrow she’d need to find work.

            Cowboy’s lieutenant, a bald man whose skull tattoo didn’t particularly improve his features, swaggered over. “Hand over your caps,” he ordered.

            “Here’s what I can spare,” she told him. “I need enough for food and accommodation.”

            “Your caps. All of them.” Bald smiled, showing horse-like teeth.

            “If I give you all my caps, I can’t eat or get treatment for the rads,” Sparrow pointed out.

            “Not my fucking problem, sweetheart. Caps. Now.”

            She reluctantly handed over all her ready cash and he chuckled. “And what’s in your pack for questioning me.”

            Sparrow pulled off her satchel and emptied it. A pack of chewing gum, a box of .38 ammo and Shaun’s favourite book fell out. “Can I please keep the book? It belonged to my son.”

            Bald smiled again. “I don’t know. What’s it worth to you?”

            Cowboy sighed. “Let her keep the book, for fuck’s sake. We’re showing the carrot, remember?”

            Bald grunted sourly. “Fine.” He scooped up the chewing gum and ammo, even though the Gunners used better weaponry than a pipe pistol.

            When Sparrow reached for Shaun’s book, however, he put his foot on it just as she tugged. The fragile paper tore in two as Bald laughed. “Didn’t say you could keep it intact.”

            Petty cruelty. Was this what Nate condoned? Sparrow simply collected the rest of the book when he removed his boot. Nothing a bit of duct tape couldn’t fix.

            Kessler’s mouth was tight. “Let her through, Clint. Your friend’s had his fun.”

            Cowboy nodded easily. “You heard her, Grimes. Let the drifter through.”

            Grimes smiled yet again. “If you want your caps back, sweetheart, I can be found at the Gunners barracks near the back wall.”

            Sparrow seethed inwardly as she marched silently past him. It would be a cold day in hell before she fucked someone like Grimes, even if she was starving and rad-addled.

            “Trader or raider?” Kessler asked once she was on the steps to Bunker Hill.

            “Neither,” Sparrow answered with a sigh. “Just looking for work.”

            “If you can read and write, the Brotherhood’s hiring,” Kessler told her with a hint of rough sympathy. “The Gunners wouldn’t dare ask a toll of their allies.”

            She refrained from pointing out that if the Brotherhood of Steel counted the Gunners as allies, they were at best morally dubious. Maybe they needed cannon fodder in their war against the Institute everyone talked so much about.

            “I’ll think about it,” she said noncommittally.

            “You should,” Kessler urged softly. “Things are going to get a lot grimmer out there, especially for a woman alone.”

            “Hey, the Major-General banned rape,” Clint protested.

            “Did he now?” Kessler’s voice was sceptical.

            “He did. No random executions, no random roughing up of settlers. In short, act like the professionals we are supposed to be.” Clint puffed out his chest. “Think of us as what the Minutemen could have been if they weren’t such idiots.”

            “If you weren’t fighting the Institute,” Kessler muttered under her breath before looking at Sparrow. “Go on through, honey. The Gunners know better than to harass a woman _inside_ the walls.”

            “Remember what I said about the caps!” Grimes hollered after her.

            Sparrow sped up her walk. She wanted to be somewhere safe and away from him. Thank God he hadn’t thought to pat her down.

            Inside, the livestock corral was by the gate to the left and warehouses to the right with the marketplace and residential district beyond them. The Brotherhood’s stall was recognisable by the orange-clad soldier who manned it while the Gunners had their own recruitment booth near the inn. Much to Sparrow’s unhappy surprise, Nate himself was standing there, talking to a wiry, unshaven soldier wearing a military beret. She glanced away, unable to look at the man that she once called husband.

            Deb, the general trader, was happy to accept the shipment of adhesive cached in Concord that Sparrow offered in return for a box of ammo, a better pipe pistol than the one strapped to Sparrow’s thigh, a dose of RadAway and a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. “Take the circuitry one to the Brotherhood stall,” she advised softly. “They’re always hungry for technology.”

            Sparrow nodded unhappily. She didn’t want to be that close to the Gunners and Nate. But she needed caps for an inn room.

            The Brotherhood apparently didn’t pay upfront for shipments; they preferred to confirm the location and quality of the merchandise before handing over caps when it came to independents like Sparrow. “Soldier,” she said wearily. “At the moment I’d settle for ten caps if it meant I can get a room at the inn. I just got shook for my last caps and ammo at the gate.”

            “Kessler’s charging tolls now?” the Brotherhood soldier, a dour chap with a scar on his nose, asked.

            “No. Clint and Grimes of the Gunners are charging tolls at the bottom of the stairs,” Sparrow answered with a sigh. “Because Kessler won’t offer anything but a discount like she does for the Brotherhood.”

            She realised her mistake when the Brotherhood soldier looked directly at Nate and said, “It true your men charging tolls at the gates, Finlay?”

            “That’s Major-General Finlay to you, Knight,” her ex-husband observed icily.

            “Just answer the question,” the Knight said impatiently.

            “If Kessler won’t pay her dues, we have to collect them somehow,” the wiry soldier countered. “We protect the roads now.”

            “Don’t worry, Knight, the Brotherhood will be exempt as per our alliance,” Nate soothed. “Everyone needs to pay their share towards fighting the Institute.”

            “So the Institute took Shaun then, did they?” Sparrow asked, figuring she might as well ask some questions of Nate while they were in public.

            He blinked, as if he didn’t recognise her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

            “Surviving.” Sparrow struggled to keep her voice neutral. “I just want some answers, if you can spare them. He’s my son too.”

            “He was,” Nate said shortly. “The rest is need to know and you don’t need to know.”

            “Do you know if he’s alive?”

            Nate sighed like he had when she asked a stupid question. “What part of ‘need to know’ don’t you understand? Now fuck off and stay out of my way. I don’t need a dumb spoilt whore ruining my plans.”

            Sparrow’s fists clenched. But she knew that he could beat the shit out of her without breaking a sweat. He’d done that once after finding her high on chems and Shaun neglected though Codsworth was tending him.

            “I’m a lot of things, Nate Finlay, but I never was nor will be a whore,” she replied steadily. “Tell Grimes that. He offered to return my caps if I visited him at the Gunners’ barracks.”

            She turned away and walked quickly through the crowd before he could respond. If she got lost in it and left early in the morning, she should be safe from any retaliation.

            Preoccupied and rattled by the run-in with her ex-husband, Sparrow ran right into the scar-faced man in brown leather who just exited a warehouse emblazoned with the Brotherhood’s symbols. “Watch where you’re going, civilian!” he said harshly.

            Since her life had gone down the drain completely, Sparrow expressed her opinion of the Gunners, the Brotherhood of Steel and the Commonwealth in general. Since she had taken two semesters of it at college, she decided to do it in Latin. Since she was Irish, she added a few choice phrases about the man in front of her in Gaelic. Since she was probably a dead woman walking anyway, she did at the top of her voice.

            By the end of her tirade, the Brotherhood soldier’s jaw was loose and his blue eyes round as extinct gooseberries. The other two accompanying him, a big man in power armour and a slender woman in a pocketed vest, were similarly shocked.

            Sparrow panted, having completely run out of steam, and waited for the axe to fall. She just didn’t care anymore.

            Finally, the officer spoke.

            “My name is Arthur Maxson and I am the Elder of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel. Were you aware of this?”

            Sparrow figured she was definitely dead now. “My name’s Sparrow and I was married to that asshole who leads the Gunners. Just so you know, around two hundred and eleven years ago, he killed your ancestor Nigel Maxson during an operation in Anchorage and got honourably discharged because my mother Elisabeth Killian convinced them a Maxson was a traitor. If you’ve allied him without knowing that, you’re a fucking idiot, and if you did so knowing it, you’re a bigger fucking idiot than a super mutant.”

            The Knight who’d been manning the stall in the marketplace came running up. “Elder Maxson- Oh, you’ve met her.”

            “You know this woman, Knight Rhys?” Maxson asked, still regarding Sparrow with wintry blue eyes.

            “Not really, but I know she’s Nate Finlay’s ex-wife,” Rhys reported crisply. “I figured we should, uh, take her into protective custody before the Gunners get a hold of her.”

            “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Maxson rasped. “I won’t even hold her extensive commentary on my ancestry, sexual activity involving Brahmin, and suggestions involving the Brotherhood, the Gunners and a pile of dead mirelurks against her.”

            The Knight blinked. “She said all of that in Latin?”

            “No, just most of it. The rest was Gaelic,” supplied the power-armoured soldier. “And you forgot the cheese grater, Elder Maxson.”

            The Elder pinched his nose. “Yes, of course I did. I’m sure her speech will go down in Brotherhood history as the most profane usage of Latin ever uttered in the presence of an Elder.”

            “I would almost pay to see Proctor Quinlan’s face when he records that in the Scrolls,” the woman muttered.

            Maxson ignored her, remaining focused on Sparrow. “Well? Will you come with us or would you rather deal with your ex-husband’s soldiers?”

            Sparrow nodded resignedly. “Let’s go. I’m sure you couldn’t possibly be worse than being married to Nate.”

            At least hopefully she’d get something to eat and a place to sleep.


	3. Idealism vs. Pragmatism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings are in the tags because there’s so many of them. If I forget one, can you please tell me in comments, and they will be added.

 

“Still feel it, don’t you?”

            Preston looked up from his bandaged stump at the question, delivered by a solid woman in a power armour frame. He glanced down and saw the legs that ended at mid-thigh and nodded when he met her eyes. “Yeah. Itches like hell.”

            “I know exactly how you feel. Sometimes think I can still wriggle my toes.” She settled with ponderous grace onto the bench in the hall before Knight-Captain Cade’s office. “I’m Ingram, Proctor of the Order of the Shield. You’d be Preston Garvey, right?”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Preston thumped his chest with his left hand in the Brotherhood manner. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

            “Cade’s probably going to discharge you today. Stump’s clean, you’re as fit as you’ll ever be, and you seem smart enough to keep yourself out of trouble.” Ingram leaned forward, studying Preston intently. “What are your plans, soldier?”

            “Live long enough to piss Finlay off.” It wasn’t like he had any other goals in life.

            “But how?” Ingram shifted a little. “I know you’re pissed about the truce with the Gunners. Hell, half the crew is. Those bastards shot down Recon Squad Artemis and cost us some damn good soldiers.”

            “Yeah, but Maxson doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d cut a deal like that without a good reason,” Preston said with a sigh. “I’m not happy. But I know you have a lot of civilians on the Prydwen and one good shot with a Fat Man would see it coming down in flames.”

            “I’m not Maxson but before I joined the Scribes, I was a Star Paladin,” Ingram said softly. “We can’t fight a war on two fronts, especially with someone who shares the same enemy as we do. It’s a lousy choice but if rumour about the Castle is correct, there’s old artillery there, and Finlay’s smart enough to get it working again.”

            Preston regarded Ingram grimly. “You know a lot on the guy.”

            “We do. He was frozen in a cryo Vault to the north. Used to be a pre-War soldier, one who specialised in some _very_ nasty shit.” Ingram’s eyes glittered. “Killed Elder Maxson’s uncle, twelve generations removed. We have access to his old military records.”

            The former Minuteman had learned a lot about the history of the Brotherhood of Steel while convalescing in the infirmary. “I understand why Maxson made the call. Don’t like it, but I can’t do jack about it.”

            “You could. I won’t lie – we want you in the Brotherhood. One-handed, you’re a better soldier than a good many Knights I could name, and you have local knowledge. Hell, you’re a decent gunsmith if your modding advice to the Squires is anything to go by.” Ingram smiled a little. “We have enough knowledge of prosthetics to make a simple hand to replace your lost one.”

            Preston shifted a little. “If I join the Brotherhood, it looks like I’m condoning Maxson’s alliance-“

            “Truce,” Ingram corrected firmly. “If you think Maxson’s comfortable about having an asshole like Finlay flanking him, think again.”

            “So what? You blow the Institute to hell and back and then turn on the Gunners with the people of the Commonwealth caught in the middle?” The Minutemen were dead but Preston would still follow their credo until his last breath.

            “Sooner or later, a group like the Gunners will be stupid enough – even with Finlay in charge – to give us a reason.” Ingram’s expression was grim. “Hell, the fact we’ve recruited his ex-wife after she chewed him out publicly has strained things.”

            “But innocent people will still be caught in the middle.”

            “Not if you can tell us where the Gunners are strongest. We’ve identified some spots of activity, figured out a few more thanks to his personnel file and what his ex-wife told us, but there’s old hideouts we won’t know about.” Ingram chewed on her bottom lip meditatively. “You’re free to go. We can drop you off at Bunker Hill, unless there’s a safer settlement for you elsewhere?”

            Preston flinched. “I need to find out what happened to Sanctuary, Abernathy Farm, Tenpines Bluff and Starlight Drive-In. They were Minutemen-allied settlements and Sanctuary has the survivors of Quincy living there.”

            Ingram nodded. “Could talk to Elder Maxson. The Gunners seem to be concentrated in the south, so if we can flank them to the north, that might mitigate some of Finlay’s advantage in terrain.”

            Was everything about tactics to the Brotherhood? “I’m worried because they’re my people.”

            “I get that. But we need a tactical basis for any decision. Finlay surely knows we’re watching him as closely as he’s watching us.” Ingram looked a little sad. “I don’t envy Elder Maxson’s position.”

            “He didn’t have to come here,” Preston pointed out ungraciously.

            “If we hadn’t, you’d be dead and there’d be no check on the Gunners,” Ingram retorted tartly. “We all agree that the Institute is a threat to the Commonwealth, yes?”

            “They are,” Preston reluctantly conceded. “They destroyed our last attempt at unification.”

            “Well, they operate in the Capital Wasteland too and we lost Elder Sarah Lyons to an infiltrator-synth,” Ingram said flatly. “So it’s personal as hell for us.”

            “I need to go to Sanctuary before making a decision,” Preston replied.

            “That’s more than fair enough. Even having a community leader on our side would be helpful.” Ingram patted his shoulder and stood up. “Speak to Sparrow, Finlay’s ex-wife. I’m sure she can give you some good reasons to at least consider the Brotherhood.”

            “Fine,” Preston promised. He owed them that much.

            Then Cade called him in and it was time to be assessed _again._

…

“Of course.”

            Ingram reported her discussion with Garvey and Arthur Maxson automatically approved of the ex-Minuteman’s request to tour his allied settlements. Not only was the Commonwealth lusher and safer the further north one went but it would be a good excuse to scout the countryside for ways to flank Finlay. He was definitely of the mind he’d made a truce with the devil, so to speak, but until the Gunners did something stupid there was nothing he could do except keep his word.

            It had come closer than he dared admit after taking Sparrow Killian into protective custody. Apparently his ex-wife daring to ask questions about the progress of his search in front of his soldiers was ‘undermining his authority’, not to mention her revelation of the extortion that the Gunners were doing. Several caravaners were threatening to leave Bunker Hill for safer climes – like the Brotherhood-controlled territories. Arthur now held the entire east from Salem to Warwick Homestead but for Quincy, which remained in Gunner hands for now. He needed friendly traders to help develop routes and pave the way for prosperity.

            Finlay was killing anything that moved and looked remotely dangerous in Gunner territory but not developing it, showing how short-sighted he truly was.

            “Elder Maxson, was there anything else?” Ingram’s voice drew him from his brooding.

            “Apologies, Proctor. No, there isn’t.” Arthur nodded to the redhead approvingly. “Unless you have anything to add about Garvey?”

            “If you want him in the Brotherhood, better show your human side, sir,” she advised. “Preston understands tactics but he doesn’t truly get pragmatism.”

            “Noted, Proctor. I might visit these settlements myself with him.” It would be good to get off the Prydwen again.

            “Understood. I’m sure Star Paladin Danse will be able to handle security.” Ingram saluted. “Ad Victoriam.”

            “Ad Victoriam.” He returned the salute and watched his favourite Proctor leave. Not that he could ever admit it.

            He glanced down at the golden pocket watch inherited by the firstborn Maxson of every generation since Roger’s son, informally called ‘Junior’ because he was named for his sire. There had never been another Roger, the name itself too heavy a burden for young shoulders to bear.

            Almost to the minute, he heard footsteps and nearly smiled. “Paladin Danse.”

            “Elder Maxson.” The soldier’s baritone was grave as always. “Proctor Ingram tells me we’ll be accompanying Preston Garvey to the Minutemen settlements.”

            “Yes.” Arthur allowed himself a sigh with this, his most trusted Paladin. “I wish we had encountered Garvey before the disaster at the Castle.”

            “That makes two of us.” Danse had been less than pleased about the truce with Finlay’s Gunners. “He’s a good soldier.”

            “He is. Overly naïve, perhaps, but still a damn fine soldier.”

            “If more men were like Garvey, the world would be a better place,” Danse rumbled.

            “Perhaps.” Arthur sighed again. “How goes Sparrow Killian?”

            “Proctor Quinlan finished questioning her two days ago and we’ve moved her to Logistics.” Danse exhaled forcefully. “It’s hard to comprehend the pre-War world as she describes it. Not the advanced technology or the luxuries but the whole worldview.”

            Sparrow Killian had been a goldmine of information and Arthur was still piecing his own understanding of the pre-War world together. Brotherhood doctrine stated that technological growth had outpaced humanity’s moral advancement to the point where the tycoons and tyrants of the past had sucked the world dry. The Vault Dweller had agreed to that but also pointed out the authoritarian governments that promulgated fear, paranoia and unthinking obedience to the state on both sides. Her own parents were bit players in a greater scheme, for all the importance her mother in particular placed upon herself, and Sparrow might have followed in their path but for a car accident that left her… unsuitable.

            _“I had a lot of time to think on the ramifications of my family’s actions,”_ the woman had observed during Quinlan’s early questioning. _“I didn’t like the implications about me as a person. Unfortunately, speaking out would have ended badly for me. At best, a man like Nate would have visited me. At worst, I could have been one of those poor souls at Mariposa.”_

Arthur rather got the feeling she preferred the Commonwealth as it was now despite the horrors of the Wasteland.

            “I know what you mean,” the Elder finally agreed. “I cannot understand her worldview but I think I have an insight into what drove Roger Maxson to create the Brotherhood of Steel. We are meant to be protectors of the Wasteland, not the brutal hand of oppression.”

            “There are those who might see us as conquerors,” Danse pointed out. “I’m fairly certain that Preston has thoughts along that line.”

            “Garvey is a fine man that belonged to a disorganised rabble of local militia which fell apart due to its own weaknesses,” Arthur countered bluntly. “We trade protection and civilian technology to Wastelanders in return for food, water and medicines. Those who give us allegiance are treated preferentially, of course, but even they rule themselves in everyday matters.”

            “I know that,” Danse said softly. “But the Minutemen were something good until General Becker died. I think if Preston loses what you call his naivety, Elder Maxson, a good man will die spiritually.”

            “Idealism is well and good but I don’t have the luxury of it,” Arthur pointed out.

            “I know,” the Star Paladin said sympathetically. “At least we have Sparrow Killian.”

            Arthur’s mouth quirked humourlessly. “She’s joining the Brotherhood in return for protection, Danse.”

            His best soldier regarded him with opaque brown eyes. “You might be surprised, Elder Maxson.”

            “Oh?”

            “She’s seen the world where technology and ambition are unchecked. True, there’s an element of self-interest in her joining us – but unlike her husband, who appears to have fallen into the same old niche which says more about the unchanging nature of humanity than I like – she’s given some thought as to _why_ pre-War society was warped.”

            Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “Her records are enlightening and likely will be made part of the Brotherhood’s training. Hell, some of them might be suitable for the schools we’re setting up in our territory.”

            Danse’s eyes glinted with humour. “Just don’t include her introduction to you, Elder Maxson. As amusing as it was, I don’t think that particular arrangement of Latin vernacular is appropriate for common education.”

            “I didn’t even _think_ Latin could be arranged in such a manner,” Arthur agreed dryly. “Has she, ah, expressed any similar sentiments?”

            “No. She’s been very polite and respectful. I suspect she was under a lot of stress that day.”

            “I agree.” Arthur clasped his hands behind his back. “Organise a security detail for when Garvey wants to return to the former Minutemen settlements. Keep me updated on Sparrow Killian’s integration into Logistics. And get some sleep, soldier. You look like hell.”

            Danse’s expression clearly said, “So do you.” Unfortunately, untroubled sleep was the domain of children and other innocents. Arthur had to juggle honour, glory and pragmatism for the greater good.

            The Elder looked towards the Commonwealth. Such a beautiful lush land in comparison to the Capital Wasteland. Once the Brotherhood purged the ghouls, super mutants, synths and other scum from its borders, a chapter that would be the envy of all others could be set up here. His legacy to the world – a prosperous, peaceful region.

            Maybe he’d even live to see it happen.


	4. Cold Comfort for the Grieving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for referenced suicidal thoughts. If I miss any trigger warnings, let me know and I’ll add them to tags.

 

Nate clasped his hands behind his back as Tinker Tom, a loony-tune with a knack for technology, hacked the Courser Chip. He’d already agreed to let the Railroad – which had obviously cleared out the Old North Church in preparation for his meeting with them – keep the damn thing. It’d been a hard kill but he just needed the signal. The synth-savers could keep the hardware for now.

            “It’s done,” the agent who called himself Deacon said, handing him a holotape. “You got any plans to get inside?”

            “I’m working on it,” Nate said shortly. “What’s your price for the assistance? I know this isn’t happening for free.”

            Desdemona offered another holotape. “This will let you scan the Institute’s internal systems. We want a copy.”

            That was reasonable enough. Nate didn’t give a rat’s ass about synth freedom or slavery. He did, however, care very much that the Institute had taken his son. The eggheads better have a damn good explanation _and_ Shaun had better be alive and healthy. Or Nate would rain down fire and hell on them. “Fine.”

            “We’ll find you when you have that tape,” Desdemona said calmly. “Did you have anything else to share with us?”

            “Nah.” Nate smiled at the synth-liberators. “You’ve been the first lot of people in the Commonwealth who’ve actively helped me. I remember that shit.”

            “We have mutual enemies,” Deacon replied coolly.

            “That we do.” Nate nodded curtly. “Since you want to see the back of me and I’m on a timetable, I’ll bid you adieu.”

            They didn’t bother saying farewell, instead focusing on packing up the remaining equipment. Nate would need to find their new base as… insurance. They’d cooperated with him but a wise soldier always had a plan to eliminate chancy allies.

            Clint was waiting outside with Grimes. If it wasn’t for those two getting greedy, Nate would have been able to keep a tab on Sparrow. Hell, he had to admit that he’d lost his temper with the woman. That she survived to reach Bunker Hill was impressive. At least she remembered to ask about the search for Shaun, even if she’d forgotten everything about discretion her parents ever taught her. He should have kept his temper and those two idiots should have kept their requests for toll reasonable.

            “I have the info,” he told the Lieutenant. “It’s back to the Glowing Sea for us.”

            “Traipsing through a radioactive shithole. Just what I wanted to do for my holiday,” Clint observed dryly.

            “Until Kessler gets over herself, _you_ need to stay away from Bunker Hill,” Nate pointed out.

            “I _get_ it. Jesus, no one expected the first Wastelander we hit for tolls to be your ex-wife.” The former Minuteman grimaced. “We still being polite with the Brotherhood?”

            “Yes.” Nate raked a hand through his greasy dark hair. He missed proper showers, soap and fucking toothpaste. “I’d rather the Institute be more worried about them than us.”

            They walked along the Freedom Trail back to Boston Common, where the rotting corpse of Swan made the place reek even worse than usual. “This Maxson’s a smart one. He’ll be waiting for an excuse to attack us. That’s why I’ve pulled in most of the hotheads back to Gunners Plaza.”

            “I’d wondered at those orders.” Clint tugged at his ear.

            “I don’t order shit without a good reason. As I said, Maxson wants an excuse to attack us, to look like the good guy wiping out the terrible Gunners.” Nate snorted contemptuously. “He’s just a fucking conqueror by another name though.”

            Grimes grunted in agreement. He was wisely keeping quiet around Nate. Sparrow wouldn’t have run to the Brotherhood if he hadn’t been in a petty mood that day.

            “You’d better be prepared for your ex-wife to spill the beans on you,” Clint observed grimly.

            “I’m making the assumption that Maxson knows everything on me,” Nate confirmed. “The military kept records of _everything._ ”

            “That doesn’t bother you?”

            “Not particularly. He’s sitting in a big hot balloon and _we_ have a fortress equipped with artillery.” Nate allowed himself a smile. “Once I know what happened to Shaun, we’re gonna have a balloon-popping contest.”

            “Here’s to hoping Baker gets them guns working.”

            “He will or I’ll gut him.”

            They were near Goodneighbour now. Fucking hell, that place was a freak show and Hancock was a ghoul junkie. Nate despised junkies. But at least the freak knew better than to piss him off.

            He looked forward to finding Shaun. If his son was alive, Nate was going to remove every threat to him in the Commonwealth. If his son was dead…

            …Nate would make the Commonwealth burn.

            No one fucked with a Finlay and got away with it.

…

Sparrow accepted the can of purified water from Codsworth and watched Preston talk to the settlers from Sanctuary and Abernathy Farm. He was gesturing with his one remaining hand, tears glittering in the weak sunlight as they fell down his umber-hued cheeks, and the body language of the Quincy survivors became dejected. They would give their allegiance to the Brotherhood because the Minutemen were dead and, if nothing else, Maxson protected his own.

            The Elder himself stood a little apart, talking to Mama Murphy, who was apparently prophetic when high as a kite. He was actively trying to recruit Preston by showing compassion and understanding, no doubt wanting to use the lingering reputation of the Minutemen to establish the Brotherhood of Steel as the new protectors of the Commonwealth. Maxson sincerely believed what he was doing was right – and in the hellhole that was the Commonwealth, he was likely their best hope.

            The landscape had changed but a steel fist in a steel glove was still the only hope for security.

            If hell didn’t involve eternal torment, Sparrow would just kill herself now. The world hadn’t changed a bit beyond the window dressing.

            “Mum.” Codsworth’s voice was soft. “Are you coping?”

            “As much as I can,” she reassured the Mr Handy.

            “I should come with you-“

            “No. The settlers need you more than I do.” Sparrow softened her harsh tone. “Thank you, Codsworth. But stay where you can do some good.”

            “Yes, mum.” The robot’s eyestalks drooped. “Do you need anything else?”

            “No, thanks. I think my duties as a Scribe are required.” She took a swig of water from the can as Maxson ended his conversation with Mama Murphy and strode over to the front of the old Finlay house.

            “Elder,” she said with a fist to chest salute. “Did you need anything?”

            “Yes. Is there anywhere we can speak privately?”

            Sparrow nodded to the ruins of her old home. “Step into my former abode. No one’s moved in yet.”

            “You lived here with Finlay?” His eyebrow rose as they entered the two-bedroom house, stripped clean of everything but the walls, roof and floor. Give the settlers a few months and they’d probably dismantle the whole thing.

            “Yeah. Longest few years of my life.” Sparrow sighed and looked around the empty kitchen/dining room/living room. “My family’s money paid for the whole thing. Not a bad thing if you accept that my inheritance came from… questionable sources.”

            “No wonder Finlay’s so intent on leaving his mark on the Commonwealth, if his prosperity was owed to the work of others,” Maxson observed shrewdly.

            “Yeah. He admired my dad, if nothing else, and probably thought he was doing his memory a favour by marrying me.” Sparrow shrugged. “We were a disaster together. He became an alcoholic and I turned to chems.”

            “Yes. You’ve certainly been candid in your interviews with Proctor Quinlan.” Maxson’s tone was carefully neutral.

            “What’s the point of hiding the truth? I’m a wreck and a lousy mother. Nate’s a psychopath whose only redeeming feature is his love for his son. Only the Lord knows what Shaun’s like, if he’s alive.”

            “If your son’s alive, he is either in a state where death would be preferable or wholly the Institute’s creature,” Maxson said bluntly. “I took you aside because we’ve ascertained _why_ the Institute kidnapped Shaun in the first place.”

            Sparrow regarded him with wide eyes. “How…?”

            “We have several DNA samples taken from Gen-3 synths captured in the Capital Wasteland,” Maxson replied. “Senior Scribe Neriah ran them against _your_ DNA on a hunch. The tests came back positive.”

            She swallowed. “Shaun… is the source of Gen-3 DNA?”

            “Yes. They are, if we could apply such a term to blasphemies of technology, your grandchildren in a matter of speaking.”

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Sparrow wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or vomit or scream.

            Maxson’s blue eyes remained focused upon her. “More time has passed between Shaun’s abduction and your release from Vault 111 than you realise.”

            Sparrow swallowed again. “How long?”

            “A minimum of forty years, perhaps closer to fifty, if we consider the Broken Mask incident in Diamond City the first sign of Gen-3 activity and Shaun was the sole source of DNA.”

            She blinked back hot tears. Jesus, Nate was going to go berserk when he found out that their son was older than both of them put together. Assuming Shaun was alive.

            Every word was the truth – Maxson might believe he presented a stony façade to the world but Sparrow could read him like a book thanks to her training as a lawyer. There was worry for her – no doubt more about her falling apart or doing something stupid than for her personally. Maybe even a hint of sympathy, though Maxsons really didn’t do sympathy.

            Sparrow wiped at her eyes, unable to conceal that moment of weakness, and nodded to Maxson. “Thank you for telling me this in private, Elder.”

            “You’re welcome. Take a moment for yourself. When you are done, we need to discuss your ex-husband’s likely reaction to this news. I’m sure he’ll eventually find out.” Maxson’s eyes burned.

            Sparrow took a deep ragged breath. “I honestly don’t know for certain. It will either make him more committed to destroying the Institute or…”

            “Or?”

            “He’ll become its biggest ally if Shaun’s alive and working for them willingly.” Sparrow shuddered.

            “What about yourself?”

            She opened her eyes, vision blurred by tears, and met that harsh gaze. “Whatever man my son would have become is _dead_ either way. The Institute killed everyone but me and Nate because we were backups. I will weep, Elder Maxson, because Shaun is my son – but I took an oath as a Brotherhood Scribe and intend to keep it.”

            “Use your tears to quench the blade of vengeance we will sink into the Institute’s heart, Scribe Killian,” he advised in steely tones. “That is the only comfort I can offer.”

            He nodded and left the house which was once hers. Sparrow broke down once he was gone and wondered if hell could be any worse than the Wasteland.

…

Arthur closed the door against Sparrow’s tears. He would give her this time to grieve, if nothing else. Whether the Vault Dweller knew it or not, she was the key to winning the war against the Institute and that meant he needed to extract every bit of useful information from her.

            They had won the Minutemen settlements over. Preston’s gaze was bleakly accepting of the new status quo. He and the Quincy survivors knew how much worse the Gunners would be.

            “Danse, have a vertibird bring over fertiliser and our modified crops,” Arthur ordered over his shoulder. “The least we can do is make sure these people can support themselves. And go over the defences to see if they can be improved at each of the settlements.”

            “Yes, sir.” There was a pause before the Star Paladin asked, “How did she take the news?”

            “She’s heartbroken but committed. You were right about her. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

            “I’ll have someone keep a watch on her. Vengeance can only carry you so far and Sparrow isn’t a vengeful woman by nature.”

            “I’ll do it.” Preston’s soft voice made both men turn in his direction. “I’m not sure I can fight anymore, even if you get me a prosthetic hand. But I think I can help Sparrow out. Both of us could use a friend.”

            “You’re joining then?” Danse tilted his head at the former Minuteman.

            “Yeah. Can’t say I _like_ you, Maxson, but you give enough of a shit about the Commonwealth to order in crops and arrange for improved defences. And you were compassionate enough to give Sparrow the bad news privately.” Garvey’s expression was bleak.

            “The Brotherhood is supposed to serve humanity,” Arthur said softly. “What’s the point of hoarding science and technology if we don’t use it to make a better world?”

            “I just hope you don’t leave the Commonwealth in ashes when the Institute is done for,” Garvey said before turning away. “I just hope I can live with myself when it’s all over.”

            Arthur knew exactly how that felt. But because an Elder dared not reveal weakness, he remained silent as the former Minuteman walked away and Danse went to carry out his orders, a woman who’d seen a world die weeping softly behind him.


	5. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for ableism, implied suicidal thoughts, coercion and threatened violence against a queer person.

 

“Look, Professor Scara, it’s pretty fucking simple. You help build this molecular relay or I send you back to the Science! Centre in pieces. Maybe your wife can give the kids of Diamond City a biology lesson.”

            Nate rubbed his stubbled chin as the slim, dark-haired robotics expert nodded hastily. Grimes was the bad cop in this situation while the slightly more affable Clint was the good cop. Having competent subordinates was something he learned to appreciate since taking command of the Gunners and now that they had a proper leader, the mercenaries were improving in leaps and bounds. The raiders in their territory, which ranged from Gunners Plaza to Quincy in the south, were either eliminated or recruited. The Atom Cats had fled with their power armour, which troubled Nate somewhat, but they’d turn up again and the pre-War tech put to good use. The settlements were grudgingly accepting of the new situation and the supplies were pouring in. Now that he’d returned from the Glowing Sea, the stage was set for the trip to the Institute.

            “On the other hand, if you cooperate, we’ll return you home with a nice reward of caps,” Clint soothed.

            The scientist nodded, expression sceptical. Nate would allow the distrust so long as she didn’t disobey his orders. “Here’s the plans,” he said, handing them to her. “You have two weeks to build the relay. You need anything, just ask and it’s yours. I’ve set up a workshop for you and you’ll get officer’s rations so long as everything stays on schedule.”

            “Yes, Major-General,” she said tightly. “Take me to the lab now. The sooner I’m done, the sooner I can leave.”

            “Your enthusiasm is laudable,” Nate observed sarcastically.

            Scara took herself off with Clint as escort, leaving Grimes looking bemused. “Why are you letting her talk to you like that, boss?”

            “I can tolerate backchat so long as results are achieved,” the pre-War survivor replied. “I also intend to keep my promise to her. If she cooperates and keeps to the schedule, she’ll be home by the end of January with a nice retirement fund. If not, we send her back to the missus in pieces.”

            “I don’t get it but your way’s working,” Grimes finally conceded.

            “I hire you to persuade people, not think,” Nate pointed out dryly. “Any news from the northwest?”

            “The Brotherhood’s taken over the former Minutemen settlements. If they control the north and east, we’re flanked.”

            Nate grimaced. “With their superior air force, we’re flanked anyway until Baker gets that artillery up and running. While I’m gone, I want you to consolidate our control over the territory we hold.”

            “What if you don’t come back?”

            “I will. With or without my son.” He refused to admit the possibility of failure on the most important mission of his life.

            “Hope so, boss.” Grimes sounded sceptical.

            “I don’t need hope. I have skill.” Nate turned away from the bruiser to examine the Castle’s courtyard. “Anything on MacCready?”

            “He’s still telling us to fuck off.”

            “Find out what makes him tick. If Wes’ records are true, that son of a bitch is the best sniper in the Commonwealth and we need that skill. Some things are worth the price and a sniper of MacCready’s calibre is one of them.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Down in the courtyard, Scara was having the men arrange the materials that had been salvaged from every scientific facility in Gunner territory. The woman knew what she was doing and had every incentive to succeed.

            “Have we eliminated the last of the Minutemen?” Nate asked over his shoulder.

            “Yeah. I’ll say this, Ronnie Shaw was a tough old bird. There’s only Garvey and rumour is that he’s joined the Brotherhood because they saved his life.”

            “Maxson sure likes to collect cripples and brain-dead whores, doesn’t he?” Nate looked up at the Prydwen hovering in splendid isolation over Boston Airport.

            “You should’ve killed the pair of them, sir, if you don’t mind my honest opinion.” Grimes was feeling brave today, it seemed.

            “Perhaps. Once I’ve found Shaun, I’ll send word to Sparrow. She deserves to know what happened to him. Then the pair of them will die with the rest of the Brotherhood.”

            “And then?”

            Nate smiled thinly. “Then the Gunners will be the sole remaining power in the Commonwealth. And we will restore order to this place.”

            He would make a safe world for Shaun to live in. It was the least he could do.

…

Preston tightened the vice around the barrel of the laser rifle, trying to get used to the simple mechanical hand he’d been given by Proctor Ingram. Three fingers and a thumb, it was made from steel and aluminium, a single wire connected to the nerves in his forearm. He could fire a laser musket with it, if need be, though he would rather stay out of combat if possible. Joining the Brotherhood was bad enough; fighting for them might just kill him, even if they were the Commonwealth’s last hope at the moment.

            Sparrow was assigned to sorting out spools of copper wire and bundles of fibre optics today. Grief and resignation hung from her like a wet rain-cape, her body working on autopilot when she wasn’t being grilled by Quinlan for everything she knew. Preston had made overtures and was shut down in the politest manner, leaving him at wits’ end. They were both Old Rite but could find little else to connect over.

            It was easier to mod weapons and follow orders. Preston couldn’t turn back time, couldn’t find a way to stop the rise of the Gunners. Couldn’t save Colonel Hollis and everyone at Quincy. All he could do was live long enough to piss off Nate Finlay.

            He could understand why Sparrow had just given up when Maxson gave her the news about Shaun. Hope was gone. Only duty and vengeance remained.

            Preston looked down at the weapons bench, wondering if it was enough.

…

The blue dazzle cleared and Nate found himself in a round metal chamber. Scara had expedited the molecular relay faster than even he expected and now the soldier stood within the heart of the Institute. He checked his laser rifle, looted from a dead Brotherhood soldier they’d found up near Malden, and walked through the door. There was a terminal he could use for the Railroad’s network scan but… he’d wait to see what happened first. Everything revolved around finding Shaun.

            “Major-General Finlay. Welcome to the Institute.” A male voice, resonant and grave with an educated British accent, echoed throughout the complex. “Let me assure you that no harm is meant. In fact, we’ve been wanting to speak to you since you left the Vault.”

            “I killed Kellogg,” Nate said loudly. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

            “Why should it? Kellogg wasn’t one of _my_ assets and frankly, the man was a ruthless monster. You’ve done us both a favour by ridding the world of him.”

            “The bogeyman of the Commonwealth thinks their chief surface lackey was a ruthless monster. That’s almost hilarious.” Nate strode towards the elevator. “I’m here for my son. I don’t give a fuck about synths or anything else.”

            “Of course.” The elevator door opened. “Please, step inside. See what the Institute is all about.”

            Nate complied, keeping one hand on the gun, and the elevator ascended into a world of sterile glass, metal and greenery. The air smelt like citrus cleaner and a subtle hint of bleach.

            “The Commonwealth has many misconceptions about what we do here,” the man continued. “For the most part, we are a peaceful scientific community dedicated to preserving humanity no matter the cost.”

            That’s what all the eggheads claimed. Still, the scientists were scurrying around and Nate had to admit, the trees looked real.

            He was released into another room and guided to another elevator. When it opened into a large office, Nate’s eyes went straight to the boy with chestnut hair sitting in the glass prison cell. His own green-hazel eyes looked back warily, the child pressing himself back against the white metal of the wall.

            “Why is my son in a fucking prison cell?” he demanded of the voice on the speaker.

            “Father?” Shaun sounded scared. “Father, who is this man?”

            Nate decided then and there he was going to kill the man that his son called Father.

            “S9-29, recall code…” A gabble of Greek followed and Shaun’s face went slack. “That… didn’t quite go as I’d hoped.”

            The soldier turned around, hand on his laser rifle, to see a tall, spare-boned man with silver hair… and green-hazel eyes. If the boy looked like Sparrow with his delicate bones, then this was Nate’s father.

            “What did you hope for?” Nate said warily.

            “I’d wanted to see if genetic recognition as proposed by Dr Li was a genuine theory or simply the stuff of wild scientific speculation,” the egghead responded with a sigh. “This is what I get for listening to physicists talk about bioscience.”

            Nate snorted. “Nice to know scientists can talk out of their asses too.”

            ‘Father’ smiled thinly. “That’s cruder than how I would have put it but… not an inaccurate description of a Directorate meeting.”

            He drew himself up and Nate noted the pallor of a sick man. “I will cut to the chase. My name is Shaun Finlay and I’m the Director of the Institute. Sixty years ago, I was… acquired… from Vault 111 for the purposes of a scientific experiment. I am your son, Major-General.”

            “Well, unless my dad came back from the dead as a scientist, you have to be telling the truth,” Nate said bitterly, releasing his gun. “Good job with the… synth?”

            “S9 is a synth, yes, a prototype designed to test extreme emotional stimuli.” Shaun sighed and looked over at the boy. “I regret that I had to use him as bait but I couldn’t think of any other way to get you here.”

            “Never apologise for a tactic that worked,” Nate told his son gruffly. “So what’s with you being called ‘Father’?”

            “Every Gen-3 synth was built using randomised samples of my genetic material,” Shaun replied calmly. “They are all my children, in a matter of speaking. And your grandchildren, if you want to think of them as such.”

            He went on to explain how the Institute needed pure, non-irradiated genes to build the perfect hybrid of man and machine. Nate was torn between awe and rage at the Institute’s gall but kept a lid on his temper. Shaun was obviously proud of his life’s work and had engineered this meeting for some purpose. He deserved to be listened to.

            “Kellogg is dead. I wanted to be rid of the man and felt you had the right of vengeance,” Shaun finished. “Thank you for that.”

            “No one fucks with a Finlay and gets away with it,” Nate said roughly. “I’m… glad to see you, Shaun. Pissed at losing so much time, but…”

            “That wasn’t any of my choice. Until recently, I didn’t have the authority to see you and Mother released from the Vault.” Shaun sighed and looked at the boy. “She isn’t with you, I see.”

            “Your mother’s joined the Brotherhood,” Nate informed him. “She wasn’t much of one to you to begin with and frankly, she would have slowed me down.”

            Shaun’s lips tightened. “We’ll need to acquire her. Her DNA is responsible for the synth ability to bond organic material to inorganic cybernetics. Yours provided the synths with superior physical capacity.”

            “Huh, she’s good for something at least.” Nate raked a hand through his hair. “So what now?”

            “You have a shower, get some clean clothing and join me for a meal,” Shaun said dryly. “I want to get to know you, Father, and see what we can do for each other.”

            The soldier snorted. “You’re my boy alright. I _hate_ being filthy.”

            “Thank God for that. You’ll convince the Directorate you’re not another Wasteland piece of scum if you’re clean.” Shaun’s eyes glittered. “I have plans, Father. And I suspect you do as well.”

            Nate smiled. “Yeah, I do.”

            “Good. Family should stand by each other.” Shaun nodded to the stairs. “Feel free to use my facilities and clothing. We’re of a size. I’ll have your garments… cleaned.”

            His tone was just like Elisabeth Killian’s in that moment Nate could have laughed. The boy had to inherit some traits from Sparrow’s side of the family, he supposed. “You sound like your grandma.”

            “Elisabeth Killian was a great benefactor of the Institute,” Shaun said with a smile. “That is a great compliment to be compared to such an astonishing woman.”

            “I liked old Frances more but still, Elisabeth was someone you didn’t cross, and she always paid her debts.” Nate headed for the stairs. “Give me about twenty minutes. I haven’t had a hot shower since October 2077.”

            “Take your time,” Shaun chuckled.

            Nate would. His son wasn’t going anywhere and he wanted a fucking shower.

…

“Elder Maxson? The Gunners’ Major-General just teleported into the Institute.”

            “Good work, Scribe. Do we have the energy signature?”

            “I think so. The classical radio station appears to be the signal carrier.”

            “Then let’s see what a signal disruptor can do. If we’re lucky, Finlay won’t come back.”

            Arthur turned away from Scribe Haylen, who was already scrambling to carry out his orders, and left the office where the radio channels were scanned and recorded. Located at the bottom of the Prydwen, it was a cramped room but the heart of Brotherhood intelligence-gathering.

            His feet carried him through the lowest barracks, the laundry where Initiates washed everyone’s clothing, and Senior Scribe Neriah’s personal lab. Preston Garvey was practicing with his new cybernetic hand by peeling mutfruit in the Scribes’ common room, ambivalence written into every line of his rangy body. The former Minuteman’s dedication was still a shaky thing, born of desperation and a lack of purpose than any belief in the Brotherhood’s cause. He would be won over or not. So long as he stayed loyal and followed orders, Arthur would tolerate his uncertainty.

            Sparrow Killian was winding copper wire onto spools, her expression empty. Since her tears at Sanctuary, the Scribe had been following orders mechanically when Quinlan wasn’t finding out what she knew. Arthur had destroyed any vestige of hope the woman possessed for her son and now she… existed.

            “Your ex-husband has teleported into the Institute,” the Elder rasped. “We’ve learned they use the classical music station as a signal carrier.”

            “Thanks for telling me, sir,” she replied absently.

            “How are you and Preston getting along?”

            “He keeps on trying to be my friend.” Sparrow finished a spool and set it aside.

            “He understands what it’s like to lose everything and find purpose in the Brotherhood,” Arthur told her.

            “No, he’s hanging on until you deal with the Gunners,” she corrected.

            “What about you?”

            “I’m doing my job.” She reached for another spool and hank of copper wire, only for Arthur to grab her hand by the wrist.

            “Both of you are part of the Brotherhood and therefore due its support,” he reminded her.

            “Preston joined up for the sake of vengeance and I’m here because there’s no other way to deal with the Institute,” she countered, trying to tug her hand free of his grip. “You’re the best of a bad lot of choices, Maxson. And that’s enough to drive me to despair because no matter how much the world changes, war never does.”

            Arthur let her wrist go. “What would _you_ do then?”

            “Fucked if I know. It’s just woeful that the steel fist in a steel glove’s the only way to impose order on the Wasteland.” The Vault Dweller laughed bitterly. “Not unlike the pre-War world, except the trees were green and the roaches were the size of my thumb.”

            “You may not believe it but the Brotherhood leaves peace in its wake,” Arthur told her. “You should see the Capital Wasteland now ten years after Project Purity was completed.”

            He _needed_ Sparrow to believe in the Brotherhood’s cause. Mama Murphy had been emphatic about that part.

            “I never saw Washington before the bombs fell,” Sparrow noted dryly. “I wouldn’t know what to compare it with now.”

            “I’m due to fly back to the Capital Wasteland for a meeting with the Elders in a couple days,” Arthur rasped. “You’re coming with me.”

            “As you command, Elder.” Her tone was flat.

            “Yes, as I command,” he agreed. “Perhaps if you see what the Brotherhood does in its homeland, you will see we are dedicated to protecting and advancing humanity.”

            Sparrow returned to winding up the copper wire. “Perhaps I will, Elder.”

            _You will,_ he vowed silently. _You must. For all our sakes._


	6. Discussions about Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence and implied misogyny, and mentions of bestiality, death, suicidal ideation and fantastic racism. The Institute stuff is going really AU here.

 

In twenty minutes, Nathan Connor Finlay transformed from a filthy mercenary in rumpled fatigues and combat armour to a well-groomed asset whose skull-face tattoo somehow didn’t detract from his white shirt and pants. He’d eschewed the Institute tunic and rolled up his sleeves to reveal muscular forearms, a .44 pistol worn on his hip and no doubt at least one knife tucked somewhere under his garments. Shaun handed his father the soft half-boots worn by Coursers inside the facility, noting that his smooth grace was almost like that the hunter-killer synths. Nate was a living weapon and knew it – gloried in it, in fact. The Directorate were going to have trouble with him.

            “Thank you,” Shaun told his father with a smile.

            “Whatever your plans are, I hope they include unlimited showers,” Nate said dryly. “The water’s so irradiated up there that even with the so-called purifiers, I never felt safe giving myself a proper wash.”

            Shaun found himself grinning. “I’m hoping you’ll want to stay here. So yes, unlimited showers will be possible.”

            It had taken nearly forty years to climb to the top of the Institute’s food chain while wondering about his parents. Another five to persuade the Directorate to agree to his plans to unleash a pair of Vault Dwellers upon the Commonwealth in the name of scientific curiosity. Six months to bring the plan to almost-fulfilment.

            Shaun knew that most of the Directorate had hoped it would be Sparrow Killian who made it to the Institute after the couple split up. Pliable and the source of the synths’ genetic ability to bond organic and inorganic components together, she could have been kept safe and secure, no threat to their running of the Institute. He was unsurprised that the Brotherhood of Steel had picked her up after the incident in Bunker Hill. She would always trade liberty for the security of protection.

            It should be no difficulty to acquire her. A Courser with some Stealth Boys could sneak in, grab her and bring her back to the Institute. Once she realised that there was a better quality of life available with the scientists, she’d likely thank them for thinking of her.

            Nate was a different creature. A predator. Perhaps even a leader.

            “I can’t tell you everything I plan because, frankly, I’m still working out details,” Shaun continued. His father’s personality profile stated that he hated the concept of ‘need to know basis’. “But, at the very least, I would like you to replace Kellogg as our… agent, in a matter of speaking. You’re more competent, left less collateral damage and have an iron grip over the most powerful mercenary group in the Commonwealth.”

            “I’ll help out where I can but the Gunners will need to be paid in hard caps or barter,” Nate immediately replied. “Baker also lost his sister to the Institute, so getting him to accept a job with you will be difficult.”

            “Unless, of course, he can’t get that artillery up and running,” Shaun said dryly.

            “I see where you’re getting at, Shaun, but I won’t stand for my men getting fucked around by eggheads and bureaucrats,” Nate said firmly. “I endured too much of that under the likes of Nigel Maxson and his ilk. Hell, even your grandma had her moments.”

            “I understand. We have ways of hiring people through intermediaries – I’ll give you full disclosure but to your men, they will be surface interests.”

            His father nodded. “I can work with that. I want the identities of every infiltrator and agent in my unit though.”

            “Of course.” Shaun turned towards the ramp which would lead downstairs to the courtyard. “I’ll take you around to meet the Directorate.”

            “So, who’s pissed a ‘surface degenerate’ is joining their exalted ranks?”

            “Dr Justin Ayo is… wary. Dr Madison Li is a surfacer from Rivet City in the Capital Wasteland and therefore will be able to commiserate with you, if nothing else. Allie Filmore and Alanna Secord trust my judgment implicitly. The others will be willing to give you a chance.”

            “Fantastic. I’m not an egghead and I want them to understand that. But I won’t stand for getting treated like an idiot.” Nate’s tone was firm. “I’m as good at what I can do as they are in their fields.”

            “Most of them respect competency. I only hope that you will give them the same courtesy.” Shaun sighed as pain clawed in his gut. He would have too little time with his father.

            But if he could leave a legacy behind that the Institute could grow upon and be proud of, he’d go into oblivion with a sense of great satisfaction.

…

With Danse at the machine gun and Maxson planted firmly on the metal bench beside her, Sparrow struggled to conceal the lurch of her stomach as the vertibird dropped from the Prydwen for the three-hour trip back to the Capital Wasteland. She, the Elder and the Lancer were strapped in while Danse relied on magnets in the soles of his power armour. If need be the vertibird could turn upside down to evade fire, she’d been assured by Lancer-Captain Kells and Proctor Quinlan, both of whom had drilled her in the necessary protocol for a meeting of the Elders. Used to mastering legal briefs and complicated etiquette in the days when diplomacy still existed, she’d learned it in a matter of hours, a spark of enthusiasm having returned with the idea of seeing the Brotherhood in their native habitat.

            They all wore headsets so they could communicate with each other, though Sparrow was trying to remain quiet. Maxson seemed personally invested in convincing her to believe in the Brotherhood’s mission and she wished she knew why. Preston would be a better candidate for his evangelism as there was nothing about the Commonwealth that the man didn’t know.

            The bench was narrow and not that long; it was only Sparrow being so slender that she and Maxson fit on it as the man was built like a brick shithouse. He and Danse made great windbreaks though at this height, so she decided to be grateful for small blessings. She felt the cold so much more since waking up in the Vault and even the thick bomber jacket pressed on her by Haylen wasn’t enough to stop her bones aching.

            They were over Quincy when Maxson broke the tense silence. “Your crime clan came from Quincy, correct?”

            “Yes,” Sparrow answered shortly.

            “Killian whiskey is worth its weight in caps – Green Label twice as much.”

            “The only reason it was illegal was because we didn’t have the proper licences to distil it,” Sparrow said. “My clan was damn good at what they did.”

            “Do you wonder if any of your kin survived to have descendants?”

            “No. Even if I’m not the last Killian, the clan scattered to the winds long before the Quincy Massacre. They’re gone. Just like the old world.”

            Why couldn’t Maxson just leave her alone? She was cooperating. She was giving them information about the early history of the Institute and the Enclave. They knew everything she did about Nate down to the fact that he was a fastidious son of a bitch.

            “So, like me, you’re the last of your line.” Maxson sighed and looked out at the grey-brown landscape below.

            “I’m _sure_ the Brotherhood will make sure the Maxson line continues,” Sparrow observed acidly.

            “They’re certainly doing their best,” Maxson muttered. “With or without any consideration of what _I_ might want in a procreative partner.”

            Sparrow flushed and glanced away. Maxson was younger than he looked and took command of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel at barely sixteen – and according to Danse, he’d killed a super mutant master at fifteen and a deathclaw (with help) at thirteen. Recent Brotherhood had been… chaotic… to say the least.

            Life probably sucked as much for him as it did for her at the moment.

            “I should offer fair warning,” the Elder continued. “Despite your pre-War Enclave and Institute antecedents, you will be highly sought after as a procreative partner by the ranking officers of the Brotherhood because of your proven fertility and non-irradiated genetics.”

            It took a moment for his words to sink in. _“What?”_

            Maxson’s gas-flame gaze was steady. “That you are attractive, obedient and docile-“

            The spark that had been ignited with the command to join Maxson on his journey to the Capital Wasteland flared into temper and before Sparrow knew it, her hand was in motion and leaving a nice red print on the Elder’s left cheek.

            “I am not a fucking uterus on legs!” she snarled. “God damn you, you neo-feudalistic jackass!”

            Sparrow shook her hand as Maxson rubbed his cheek. Lord but that stung! Even the man’s face was stone-hard!

            “And _there’s_ the Irish clanswoman who made suggestions on my previous sexual misconduct with Brahmins and cheese graters,” the Elder said wryly. “I was beginning to wonder if she’d given up the ghost.”

            Sparrow’s fists clenched with the urge to pummel him. Except that Maxson was so solid she’d break her hands trying. “You provoked me!”

            “I did.” He was unashamed in his confession. “I wanted to know if the intelligence concerning your son had broken you.”

            She turned away from him, seething. Damn him for playing her like a fiddle. Damn her for falling for it. “So all that crap about ‘procreative partners’-“

            “Is true.” Maxson’s tone was dry. “Though the Elders will be disappointed you’re not as _pliant_ as some of them might wish.”

            “I’m not marrying some wannabe overlord to cement your rule over the Brotherhood, oaths or not,” Sparrow said acidly. “If you think what I said to you in Bunker Hill was rude, wait until you hear what I’d say to whatever ‘procreative partner’ you choose for me, Maxson.”

            His nostrils flared. The man even had the aristocratic beak of a nose to go with his attitude. “You feel some loyalty to Nate Finlay after he abandoned you?”

            “Not particularly,” she responded. “My marriage to him was at least semi-arranged by my mother. But damned if I go into another union on the orders of someone else.”

            Maxson stared at her. “You genuinely believe I would order you to marry one of the Elders?”

            “Why not? You seem to enjoy arranging everything else.”

            “Brotherhood doctrine forbids the coercion of anyone into a procreation contract.” His eyes burned blue. “Strong hints and arrangements can be made, it’s true, but every soldier has the right to refuse a union if it is truly unpalatable to them. That has been my saving grace more than once, thank the Steel.”

            “Oh.” Her temper and outrage flowed out like dirty water.

            “I was simply warning you of what to expect from the ranking officers at this meeting, several of who are unmarried. You will have the right to refuse them and I will stand at your back.”

            “That’s good to know,” Sparrow observed with a sigh. Then her eyes narrowed. “Will you be one of them?”

            Maxson’s thick eyebrow rose. “Why, would you like me to be?”

            “That’s not an answer, Elder.”

            “And neither is your statement, Scribe.”

            She looked away. This was becoming more complicated than she needed at the moment.

            But the heat of his thigh against hers was almost scorching as they flew over the territory between the Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland.

…

In the course of a conversation, Sparrow Killian had transformed from a useful resource to a potential procreative partner. The temper which stunned Arthur on their first meeting had flared again when given fuel – his cheek still stung, though he noted her surreptitiously rubbing her hand. The Brotherhood soldiers, even Garvey, instinctively deferred to him because he was a leader of men and a Maxson. The pre-War survivor barely knew him and cared less about his bloodline. Even at her most sullenly obedient, there was a hint of defiance, of resistance. Winning her loyalty would be a challenge worthy of him.

            The landscape below slowly greened with the crops produced by the Brotherhood’s Botany Scribes and distributed to the farmers before being watered by Aqua Pura. Ten years after the decisive victory over the Enclave and the Lone Wanderer’s activation of Project Purity, smaller devices had purified most of the Capital Wasteland’s other water sources – devices that would be brought to the Commonwealth, which was in a better state than Washington had been. It was a pity the vertibird could only hold four people or Arthur would have brought Preston too – it would have done the former Minuteman a world of good to see the future of his homeland under the Brotherhood.

            “We still have raiders and the odd group of feral ghouls and super mutants in the Capital Wasteland but it’s a great deal safer than parts of the Commonwealth,” Arthur observed as he watched Sparrow look over the farms and towns. “The only places with comparable peace and prosperity on a wide scale that we know of are in the west – the New California Republic and the Mojave under the rule of the Courier.”

            Radstag-doe eyes swung in his direction. “Preston said the Commonwealth tried to unite once but the Institute sent a synth to kill all the settlement leaders at the conference.”

            “The Institute knows a disunited Commonwealth allows for the easy manipulation and disappearance of its populace,” Arthur rasped grimly. “They tried to undermine Brotherhood efforts down here after the Enclave invasion. We lost a Sentinel to an infiltrator.”

            And when Jamie Jameson died, Arthur had to wonder if Sarah had chosen to follow her affianced into death by being careless in battle. The Lone Wanderer had been a great hero and greater asset to the Brotherhood.

            Sparrow was visibly nauseated. “So they provoked the fight?”

            “Our doctrine would have led to a clash with them regardless of provocation,” Arthur candidly admitted. “But yes, after Sentinel Jameson’s death and the loss of Elder Sarah Lyons, the fight became personal.”

            “No one has clean hands in the Wasteland,” Sparrow sighed. “But damn, some people are nastier than others.”

            The Vault Dweller hugged herself. “I wish I’d died in cryostasis. Nate’s built for this world. I’m not.”

            Arthur knew that she followed the Old Rite, or the brand of Christianity that the Old Rite had been derived from, and therefore suicide was a sin. “You have survived where others haven’t, even before you encountered the Brotherhood. If that isn’t the Creator looking out for you because He has a purpose, then I don’t know what is.”

            Her gaze was bitter as the wind at this altitude. “I ache from the cold most of the time because my bones were broken in that car accident. My son is either dead or a monster who could sign off on murdering innocent people. My ex-husband’s thriving as a ruthless mercenary commander and Lord help us all when he finds out the fate of our child. If I didn’t think decent people like the Abernathies and Garvey were safe from damnation, I’d believe I was dead and in hell already.”

            She looked off into the distance. “And my parents were cogs in the machine that produced the Great War. I looked away because the other options were death or worse than death.”

            “And now you’re aligned with the best of a bad lot of choices,” Arthur rasped.

            There was irony in the gaze she bestowed upon him. “I was politely trying to avoid mentioning that.”

            “Your concern for my tender feelings is touching.”

            “I don’t give a damn about your feelings. _Star Paladin Danse’s_ on the other hand…”

            The soldier, who hadn’t needed to use his mini-gun so far, snorted. “Thank you. I think.”

            “We’re approaching the Citadel,” Lancer Rico announced. The man’s ability to remain silent about important conversations was impressive and Arthur was thinking of making the young Wastelander his personal vertibird pilot because of that discretion.

            Sparrow’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ – is that the _Pentagon_?”

            Arthur allowed himself a proud smile. “Yes. Elder Lyons, my foster father, reclaimed it. His daughter Sarah Lyons rebuilt it after the Enclave destroyed it. And when I’m not on the Prydwen, it is the heart of the Brotherhood of Steel on the East Coast.”

            He leaned close to murmur in Sparrow’s ear, “Humanity can rebuild while there is hope. It is _mine_ that you find _yours_.”

            The Scribe fell silent and looked away yet again. Creator willing, she’d been given something to think about.

            Where there was life, there was hope. And Arthur wasn’t minded to lose one of his people to despair.


	7. New Elders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny, fantastic racism and mentions of death, war crimes, slavery and violence. For the sake of simplicity and my own lack of desire to go through pages of lore, I’m sticking to chapters of the Brotherhood that are mentioned in the main Fallout games (1-4 and New Vegas) – Lost Hills, Mojave, Capital Wasteland and Commonwealth with the Prydwen as a mobile one. Also mentions of my head-canon Lone Wanderer and Courier.

 

The Great Hall of the Citadel had been cleared of its usual trestle tables and benches in favour of a large round wooden table that Sparrow took one look at and declared to be mahogany. Twenty chairs were placed around it for the ranking officers of the Brotherhood attending this meeting, the first of its kind since Arthur took the battle to the Institute, and Danse already wished he was elsewhere. Power armour was forbidden at the Council and without his hide of steel, the Star Paladin felt naked.

            “A round table, the Prydwen… Elder Maxson does like to play up the resemblance to his mythological namesake, doesn’t he?”

            Danse looked down at Sparrow with a wry smile. The Vault Dweller had shown more backbone than anyone in the Brotherhood expected after the despair she’d displayed since Arthur talked to her at Sanctuary. But then, only a few had witnessed her display of temper at Bunker Hill and only he and Lancer Rico knew she’d slapped Arthur on the way here.

            “In some ways, he _is_ our King Arthur,” he told her. “He’s the only one that can keep the Brotherhood together.”

            Her coral-hued lips tightened. “You should never put all your eggs in one basket, Star Paladin.”

            Preston Garvey’s ambivalence to the Brotherhood was only to be expected; the former Minuteman had essentially surrendered his region’s autonomy to the epitome of a neo-feudalistic military order for the sake of survival. Sparrow, on the other hand, was haunted by the Brotherhood’s conflict with two factions her family history was intimately entwined with – and her own bad memories of pre-War life. Danse was beginning to wonder if the Great War had been a good thing in that it wiped the corrupt governments of the past from the face of the earth.

            “Has anyone given you any trouble?” he asked, changing the subject.

            The Vault Dweller appeared surprised. “No.”

            “Good.” Danse sighed. He’d been worried that some might consider Sparrow a threat to the Brotherhood when her ‘allegiance’ to the Enclave and Institute had been in the pre-War times. She’d looked gratifyingly revolted when Arthur revealed the actions of both factions in the Capital Wasteland. “What did you think of the archives?”

            “Enlightening.” Her tone was dry as the Mojave in high summer.

            “Oh?” Danse raised an eyebrow.

            “My mother wasn’t half as important as she thought herself to be. The Enclave left her to rot in Massachusetts when they all took off to the Poseidon oil rig.”

            It was petty of him but knowing some of the atrocities Elisabeth Killian authorised allowed Danse to find a snicker at the fate of the long-dead woman.

            “It wasn’t just my mother, Danse. It was millions of innocent civilians whose only crime was to live in a military dictatorship masquerading as a democracy,” Sparrow chided. “There were food riots not ten miles from where I lived. The army just mowed them down like too-long grass.”

            Danse flushed with shame. “Did you ever starve?”

            “No. My mother had enough connections to make sure we always had food and the Killians not only produced illegal whiskey, they smuggled civilian goods like food and medicine,” Sparrow answered sadly. “It’s a hard thing to know that one’s survival relied on atrocity, corruption and betrayal.”

            “The Wasteland forces choices like that on people every day,” Danse said with a sigh. “I was an orphan in Rivet City. Theft, scavenging and even violence were part of survival. But I joined the Brotherhood of Steel and became better than myself.”

            “You are a Paladin in the truest sense of the word,” Sparrow agreed.

            “That’s kind of you to say so.” Danse studied the fine-boned clanswoman. “You should let go of the past, Sparrow. The old world is long dead and the Brotherhood is building a new one.”

            Her doe-eyed gaze turned opaque. “Yet the old world lingers in the form of me and Nate.”

            “You were as much a victim of the old world as anyone else. From everything I’ve heard, since you emerged from the Vault you’ve done no harm to others. If you’re feeling guilty over not being a hero – well, not all of us are meant to be soldiers and your talent for logistics might just rebuild the world a little faster than my laser rifle will.”

            The Scribe shied away from his honest praise by changing the subject. “So, who are the Elders?”

            “We have five: Arthur Maxson, Henry Casdin of the Capital Wasteland chapter, Nolan McNamara of the Mojave chapter, Gareth Lee of Lost Hills, and whichever Paladin gets put in charge of the Commonwealth chapter.” Danse rubbed the back of his neck. The black uniform of an officer, bestowed upon him by Arthur before their trip down south, was a shade too tight.

            “Your information’s a bit out of date, Star Paladin,” observed a pleasant woman’s voice. Danse turned around to face a broad-shouldered woman with ash-brown hair and sculpted features. “My father has returned to the Steel and I stand as Acting Elder in his place.”

            Danse saluted fist-to-chest, noting that Sparrow echoed his movements. “Elder Lee, I am sorry for your loss.”

            “My father served long and well,” Jacqueline Lee said softly. “I hope to follow in his footsteps.”

            “I’m sure you will.” Lost Hills was the parent-chapter of the Brotherhood and its spiritual heart.

            “You’re too kind.” The Elder inclined her head before regarding Sparrow frankly. “I expected Quinlan or Teagan to represent the Scribes.”

            “Elder Lee, this is Scribe Sparrow Killian. Scribe Killian, this is Acting Elder Jacqueline Lee of the Lost Hills chapter.” Danse performed the introductions as formally as he could manage. While not unreasonable, the Lees were noted sticklers for protocol and tradition.

            “An honour to meet you,” Sparrow said.

            “And you.” Jacqueline held the Vault Dweller’s gaze easily. One didn’t become an Elder in the Brotherhood without being forged from the finest Steel. “How did you come to the Brotherhood? You could almost pass for one of the Scribes born to our order.”

            “I was taken into ‘protective custody’ by dint of being one of two cryogenically preserved pre-War survivors and wound up taking the oaths because the Institute was responsible for the abduction of my son,” Sparrow responded calmly. “The other one, my ex-husband, chose to become a mercenary instead.”

            Jacqueline’s arched eyebrow shot up. “ _You’re_ the one that has the Scribes in a right state?”

            “And the male Elders too apparently,” Sparrow noted sourly. “Thanks to having non-irradiated genes and proven fertility.”

            Danse tried not to wince. Arthur had been blunt in what a woman like Sparrow could face – and it was obvious that she was still unimpressed about it. But to speak the truth so… baldly… to an Elder-

            “You can tell the men where to go. Or you could arrange a series of procreation contracts that will allow you to make strategic alliances and climb through the ranks. Or hell, you can tell them to court you properly.” Jacqueline’s tone was almost cheerful. “You have choices, Scribe, so make a few.”

            Sparrow nodded, expression blank. “Thank you for the advice, Elder.”

            Jacqueline inclined her head. “You’re welcome, Scribe.”

            Before the conversation could get more awkward, Arthur walked in accompanied by Nolan McNamara of the Mojave, who was looking decidedly seedy. Danse was reminded that two of the five Elders were in their fifties. Jacqueline was in her thirties – and a very vigorous thirties thanks to her life as a Paladin and Sentinel – and Arthur in his twenties. Whoever was chosen as the Commonwealth Elder would likely be in vigorous middle age – Lancer-Captain Kells was a likely candidate. Danse, as a Wastelander born outside of the Brotherhood, wasn’t. Besides, he was happy to be Arthur’s acting Sentinel.

            “Please don’t steal my right-hand man,” Arthur told his third cousin wryly.

            Jacqueline grinned. “Can I borrow him for the night?”

            Danse went bright red as he realised the implications of her statement. “Uh, Elder-“

            “You can tell me where to go, Paladin,” Jacqueline said. “I’m just of the mind that the Lost Hills lineage is a little too inbred and a fresh infusion of blood will be good for it. And since you’re devoted to cousin Arthur, you won’t be looking for a permanent alliance.”

            “And I wouldn’t be able to see any child we conceived on a regular basis, Elder Lee,” Danse said quietly. “Thank you for the offer but I must respectfully decline.”

            Her lips thinned and she nodded. “As you wish.”

            The Star Paladin respected Elder Lee but honestly – he had no desire for the sort of arranged mating that the Brotherhood’s higher ranks routinely practiced. He also understood why Sparrow found the idea so disquieting.

            Arthur gave Danse a sympathetic look. The Elder himself had no love of the matches that the Council was trying to arrange. Perhaps that was why he was trying to court Sparrow, even if he didn’t realise it yet. “Jacqueline, are you-?”

            “Yes, yes,” the Elder of Lost Hills said impatiently, waving her hand. “He’s a ridiculous exemplar of all things moral in the Brotherhood. You have my vote.”

            “And mine, which makes the majority,” Nolan added softly.

            It was Sparrow who translated the cryptic exchange first. “You’re making Danse the Commonwealth Elder?”

            McNamara blinked. “You were aware of this?”

            Sparrow’s brown eyes were wry. “It’s pretty bloody obvious if you know where to look, Elder.”

            Danse stared at Arthur. “…Elder?”

            “You can call me Arthur now,” Maxson said gently. “The Council has its pragmatists and isolationists. We need someone who is both idealistic and _not_ tied up in the old politics, who comes from the outside. That means you.”

            It was tempting to ask if the Council had lost its bloody mind but Danse knew that between them, Jacqueline and Arthur were the sanest members of the old families. McNamara just wanted to be left alone, a tendency that the thoroughly political Arthur manipulated to achieve what he wanted. Casdin would go along with it because he knew that he was only an Elder by Arthur’s grace.

            “I never wanted this,” he said softly.

            “I know. And that’s why I need you as an Elder in the Commonwealth,” Arthur said with a hint of sadness. “Rhys will make a competent Sentinel and Haylen, if you wish, will be a fine Head Scribe.”

            “I’ll… need to think about it.” Danse needed to think about a lot of things. Why him and not Kells? Or even old Brandis?

            “I know.” Arthur smiled slightly. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll make a wonderful Elder.”

            Danse wasn’t so sure but, obedient to his High Elder, he nodded anyway. Creator help the Brotherhood of Steel.

…

“You should have warned him.”

            Sparrow’s voice was chiding as they adjourned for a few hours to get some food and let poor Danse adjust to his new title.

            Arthur turned around to face the Vault Dweller. “I needed to spring it as a surprise on him and the other Elders.”

            _I needed to have someone I can trust absolutely on the Council,_ he thought grimly. Even Jacqueline was, at best, a shaky ally because of her adherence to tradition and keeping Lost Hills’ pre-eminence as the heart of the Brotherhood.

            He was less than impressed at the new Lost Hills Elder’s attempt to manipulate the Commonwealth Elder by offering a procreation contract before Danse even knew of his promotion. Thankfully Danse declined in a manner that she couldn’t take offence to because it was a valid reason.

            “You certainly did _that_ , though it makes sense in hindsight,” Sparrow agreed dourly.

            “How are you holding up?” Arthur asked, changing the subject before Sparrow hit a nerve.

            “I haven’t had to slap anyone today, so I guess I’m holding up well.” Sparrow folded her arms. “So, High Elder of the Prydwen chapter, I guess you’re living up to your mythological namesake by uniting the Brotherhood under your rule.”

            “I am not High Elder yet. _That_ will depend on the defeat of the Institute.” Arthur regarded her. “So what do you think of the Capital Wasteland?”

            “It’s green. People are mostly safe. The water isn’t full of rads. I suppose it’s as close to Paradise as we’ll get in the Wasteland.”

            “I would see the Commonwealth bloom even more,” he told her. “It has the potential to become a new Eden with our agricultural technology.”

            “A new breadbasket for the Brotherhood to expand into,” Sparrow pointed out bluntly.

            “Yes,” Arthur agreed candidly. “We offer protection, education, medicine and superior civilian technology. The civilians provide us food and support. Aside from a few laws, they rule themselves.”

            “Feudalism died out for a reason, Maxson.” Sparrow laughed self-deprecatingly. “Here I am, the survivor of a military dictatorship, bitching about your little empire.”

            “Lost Hills is integrated into the NCR and the Mojave chapter is allied to New Vegas,” Arthur said. “We only rule directly in the East and _that_ was set in place by Elder Owyn Lyons.”

            How could he explain to her the political chaos that was democracy in the NCR? The Capital Wasteland was at relative peace and the major settlements ruled themselves with the only laws the Brotherhood set revolving around the use and study of science and technology. Rivet City, founded by scientists, was now the foremost centre of education and vocational training in the region even with its nuclear core removed and replaced by solar generators engineered by the Scribes out west. Megaton was a rich trading hub and even Vault 101 participated in the Capital Wasteland these days under Amata Amaldovar.

            With almost anyone else, even an Elder, Arthur would invoke his rank and surname to shut down any further line of questioning. But Sparrow’s questions, for all their criticism, forced him to consider his answers. She might turn aside from difficult moral situations – a survival instinct from pre-War – yet she never followed in blind obedience.

            Arthur turned towards the refectory. “Come. We both need food.”

            They found Danse sitting by himself with a big plate of food and an entire box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes on the table. “Discovering the perks of your new rank, eh?” Arthur asked with a smile. The big man’s love of the sweet little iced cakes was almost proverbial.

            “I still wish you hadn’t done this,” Danse growled. “I wish someone had at least warned me.”

            “I didn’t figure it out until the discussion we had before Elder Lee showed up,” Sparrow told him apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

            “ _You_ don’t need to be,” Danse responded. “You should stop apologising for things that were out of your hands.”

            _Thank you, Danse,_ Arthur thought silently as he sat down. Sparrow crossed the table to sit down beside the new Commonwealth Elder.

            An Initiate brought some gourd mash, steamed beans and corn, and baked bloatfly. Arthur thought longingly of Knight-Sergeant Tuckey’s culinary genius back on the Prydwen before tucking into the food. The Citadel’s cook was competent, if not fantastic.

            “I’d like to see the NCR and Las – I mean New Vegas one day,” Sparrow finally said.

            “I was born at Lost Hills,” Arthur said in between bites of bloatfly. “The chapter’s relationship with the NCR is… complicated.”

            “Something you’ll need to attend to,” Danse observed. “President Kimball deserves nothing less than a visit from a Maxson Elder.”

            Arthur grimaced. “I wish the Courier had done something about him at Hoover Dam. The man’s corrupt.”

            “And lose her main source of revenue?” Nolan McNamara asked dryly. “Five Sorrows is many things but a fool isn’t one of them.”

            The Mojave Elder took a seat at Arthur’s bench, nodding to the others. He’d already chosen Veronica Santangelo, the Head Scribe of his order, as replacement when he returned to the Steel – by nature he was an isolationist but even McNamara could see the writing on the wall with three relatively progressive Elders on the Council. Veronica actively believed in making things better for the Mojave and had fostered a profitable alliance between the Brotherhood and the Followers of the Apocalypse.

            “That’s an interesting name,” Sparrow observed quietly.

            “She was a tribal, Scribe Killian, before she became a Courier of the Mojave Express,” Nolan explained. “Then Robert House hired her to transport a platinum poker chip across the desert and altered the balance of power forever.”

            Sparrow’s eyebrows arched. “Robert House is still alive?”

            “ _Was_ until 2281,” the Elder corrected dryly. “Five Sorrows was less than amused at his manipulations and proceeded to educate the three great powers of the Mojave – House, the NCR and Caesar’s Legion – accordingly. House died, Caesar’s Legion was crushed and the NCR was allowed to limp home with its tail between its legs.”

            “And if you think the Brotherhood is… feudalistic and imperial… than know Caesar’s Legion practiced slavery in addition to many other horrors,” Arthur added grimly. “Even your ex-husband might be disgusted by them.”

            Sparrow grimaced. “I had an excellent classical education, Maxson. I can very well imagine what this Legion was like.”

            “A pre-War survivor who isn’t a ghoul. Do you have any idea what kind of resource you are?” Nolan asked softly.

            “Yes. It’s been made abundantly clear down to the procreative details,” Sparrow said sourly.

            McNamara regarded Arthur with a raised eyebrow. “I never married but I would have expected a little more charm from you, Maxson. Even the most businesslike of procreative contracts have at least the illusion of romance and courtship.”

            Arthur nearly spat out his mouthful of gourd mash. Did Nolan think he was trying to court Sparrow?

            Danse cleared his throat. “Arthur’s used to commanding troops, not courting a civilian. It’s certainly been interesting to watch though.”

            His most loyal soldier did _not_ just sound sarcastic about the whole affair. Right?

            “By dint of her pre-War ancestry and connections, Scribe Killian is a unique insight into the early history of the Institute and the Enclave. In return for her candour, I’ve been answering questions about the history she’s missed and am trying to convince her that civilisation is returning to the Wasteland,” Arthur finally said through gritted teeth after swallowing his food.

            “Of course.” The Mojave Elder’s voice was bland.

            Sparrow remained silent, eating her meal with grim determination. Somehow that made the entire situation worse.

            “Now she’s silent. You’re in deep trouble.” Yes, McNamara was enjoying this.

            Yet if Arthur declared that he _wasn’t_ courting Sparrow, it would be open season on the pair of them by the matchmakers. But if he _did_ , the politics would get even worse.

            “I do not need any interference in this affair,” he finally rasped.

            “Romance, Arthur. It goes a long way with a procreative partner. Trust me.” Nolan returned to his meal, leaving Arthur seething and only imagining how Sparrow must feel.

            He finished his food, hoping that she wouldn’t hate him too much when the Brotherhood needed her.


	8. Appearances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, dehumanisation and fantastic racism.

 

X6-88 was the finest killing machine Nate ever had the pleasure of watching and working with. The Courser snapped necks and limbs with barely more effort than popping the cap from a beer, allowing the Gunner to focus on sniping their enemies from afar. By the time they reached the main bulk of Libertalia, most of the raiders were dead and neither Institute agent was so much as scratched or bruised. The twisted maze of rooms on the old ship was slightly more of a challenge but soon enough, they faced the runaway synth and two friends. Then it was just the two humans as Nate calmly uttered the recall code and watched the light drain from ‘Gabriel’s’ eyes. Then it was none because X6 executed the raiders before they could even react to their leader’s shutdown.

            “Is it necessary to loot the dead?” X6 asked with dull curiosity as Nate rifled through the corpses’ pockets for anything portable and useful.

            “Habit,” Nate responded. “Up here, every bullet could mean the difference between life and death – and I still have soldiers to pay.”

            “Understandable. I apologise for coming across as questioning you, sir, but…” The Courser trailed off, looking almost uncomfortable.

            “You don’t know me and I don’t know you. I only get pissy at stupid questions,” Nate assured him.

            “Of course, sir. If I may say so, you are certainly more efficient than Kellogg was.”

            “Kellogg was a self-trained thug from the ass-end of the Wasteland. I was trained in a time when war meant something.” Nate smiled cheerfully at X6. “Does the Institute have any plans for this location?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Good. Might move up some of my boys, flank the Brotherhood from the north.” If Maxson wanted to play the flanking game – well, so could Nate.

            X6 regarded the Prydwen grimly. “I would feel easier with that out of the sky, I’ll admit.”

            Nate could appreciate and agree with that sentiment. “I know them feels. Unfortunately, I don’t have the firepower to deal with the Brotherhood yet. Is there anything else that’s needed from me? I should check on my soldiers at the Castle.”

            “I believe we can do without you for a week or so. I will transport this synth back to the SRB for reset and reassignment.”

            Nate nodded to X6. “Wonderful. Tell Shaun I should be back soon. If not, he knows which channel to use.”

            “I shall.” Within moments, X6 and Gabriel had been relayed out, leaving Nate alone to do some constructive looting.

            By the end of the day, he was walking into the Castle with a shitload of caps and ammunition. During his three-day absence, the molecular relay had been dismantled – yet Professor Scara was still in the courtyard, being questioned by Clint.

            “Lieutenant, I’m back!” he bellowed, reminding himself to set up some better sentry posts. He should have been challenged by now.

            “Looks like we’ll be escorting you home tomorrow morning,” Clint told the dark-haired egghead before turning to the Major-General. “Sorry, sir, figured we’d hang onto her until we knew what happened to you.”

            “Smart man,” Nate said with a smile. “Where are the officers?”

            “Avery’s down south reinforcing Quincy and monitoring the Brotherhood’s communications,” he replied once Scara had been led away by a junior Gunner. “Jake and Tessa’s manning the recruitment stall in Bunker Hill. Those bastards in the airship have some good ideas we should steal. Baker’s overseeing the clearing of the rubble that’s blocking the path to the armoury. That’s where the artillery plans are likely kept – and who knows what else Becker had in there.”

            Nate wasn’t happy about Baker’s lack of progress but he knew there was some shit he couldn’t help. “I want every soldier not on combat duty, sick or rec leave down there hauling the shit out. I want that artillery ready, the sooner the later.”

            “Yes, sir.” Clint saluted. “I’m assuming by your chipper attitude you found your son?”

            “I did.” Nate pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Shit’s a bit more complicated than I expected but… my boy’s a ranking member of the Institute now.”

            Clint’s eyes widened beneath his cowboy hat. “Baker will explode if he finds out.”

            “I’m trusting you with this information because you’ve been with me since the beginning,” Nate said softly. “While Shaun’s around and the Institute is on my good side, I’ll be working with them. Hell, they may even hire us for a few discreet jobs and pay us in medical supplies we sorely need. But if the others know who they’re working for-“

            “They’ll do something stupid,” Clint finished.

            “Precisely. Shaun’s already got them to agree to leave our settlements the hell alone.” Wrangling that from the Directorate had been hard as the east was popular for their experiments.

            “That’s good to know.” Clint, bless his pragmatic heart, was going along with it. “I have to say, I like the direction you’ve taken us, sir. Under Jake and Wes, felt a lot like we were more organised raiders. But with you in charge, we’re what the Minutemen should have been.”

            Nate found himself touched and reached out to clasp Clint’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Tessa and even Baker. Any news on the Brotherhood front?”

            “Garvey’s gotten the northwest on Maxson’s side but the west and southwest are wary of the Brotherhood,” Clint reported. “Avery tells me that Maxson went south on a vertibird and from his description, your ex-wife was with him.”

            The soldier grimaced. “This is why I want that fucking artillery.”

            “Amen.”

            Nate rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. “Send out our steadier soldiers to the west and southwest. More carrot than stick should work in that direction. I also cleared out a location called Libertalia that will flank Maxson to the north. I want men there.”

            Clint scratched his chin. “I’d assign Baker there once the rubble’s cleared. I know enough about munitions to put the artillery together.”

            _And that will put potential trouble at the end of the supply line. Clint, you’re a fucking genius._

            “Good.” Nate smiled again. All was right in the world once more. “I’ll inspect the rubble and then get some sleep. It’s been a long few days.”

…

“Sparrow, I’m sorry about what happened at dinner.”

            Arthur’s voice sounded apologetic and a little chagrined. No doubt he wasn’t happy at Nolan McNamara’s neat manipulation of the situation. He was over a decade younger than the next youngest Elder and had correspondingly less political experience for all his strategic genius. And Elders like McNamara and Casdin played to win.

            The Council of the Brotherhood of Steel comprised five Elders and the three senior staff from each chapter who headed their appropriate castes. That generally meant a Sentinel or Star Paladin, a Lancer-Captain and a Head Scribe. Once Danse was confirmed as Elder of the Commonwealth chapter, much to his chagrin, two more vertibirds were called in to bring down Lancer-Captain Kells, Proctor Quinlan and Star Paladin Brandis for the Prydwen, and Rhys, Haylen and a Lancer-Sergeant named Durga for the Commonwealth.

            Politics in the Brotherhood were certainly robust and while not as Machiavellian as what Sparrow had witnessed from her mother, there was plenty of manipulative undercurrents going on at the meeting. Arthur had won the battle of getting Danse as Elder but now had been put on the spot to start thinking about procreation. Especially since the other Elders believed he’d selected Sparrow – with her pure genes and proven fertility – as said procreative partner.

            If they refused, the matchmakers would start arranging other unions for the pair of them. While Brotherhood soldiers could refuse any match, there was a lot of pressure brought to bear and until Head Scribe Veronica Santangelo took over in the Mojave chapter, the progressive members of the Council were still on rocky ground.

            Arthur was backed into a corner and unfortunately so was Sparrow.

            “Sparrow?” Arthur now sounded almost anxious.

            “You got played rather nicely by McNamara,” she said over her shoulder. “And you can’t possibly be as sorry about the whole thing as I am.”

            His scarred features tightened. “Am I so distasteful to you?”

            “No.” He deserved that much from her, even if she was mightily pissed at him for dragging her into this political mess. “But the idea of being treated like a fucking breeding Brahmin is.”

            “You’re talking to the bull they’re trying to put to stud,” he pointed out dryly. “The Council’s expectations for me are no joy to bear either.”

            The tension eased between them, became almost comradely. Arthur was no more pleased about the political developments than Sparrow was and she needed to remember he also had the burden of a war on his shoulders.

            _Work with him. He’s been a damn sight more patient with you than he’s had to be. He’s put a lot more trust than others would have._ “So how do we get out of this mess without pissing too many people off?”

            “Nothing has been decided between us, so for now, the appearance of courting should be sufficient to buy some time as the war against the Institute must take priority.” Arthur walked up to her so she could face him without putting a crick in her neck. As always, she was struck by the solidity of his frame – Danse had a few inches on the Elder and Arthur stood over six feet in height but Arthur had thicker muscles than his best friend. She had the Killian build – medium height for a woman with fine bones that made her look smaller than she really was.

            “And then?”

            “We will see. Appearance may become reality or we shall simply decide we’re not compatible and part ways.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You are… not distasteful to me.”

            In that moment, she felt the burn of his charisma and understood why older soldiers would fight and die for him. “Don’t let it go to your head, Maxson. Compared to Nate, a feral ghoul isn’t distasteful to me.”

            “That’s what I enjoy about your company, Sparrow. You never let my ego pass by without taking a jab at it.” He stepped closer, brushing the edges of her personal space, blue eyes almost harsh as they settled upon her. “Yet I would argue my company is a little more pleasant than that of a feral ghoul.”

            She stepped back against the wall, feeling the cool concrete through her uniform. “Perhaps.”

            Arthur’s eyes were vivid against his sun-darkened complexion. “You’re as skittish as a radstag doe being hunted by a yao guai.”

            “Given that your name means ‘bear’, that’s not an entirely inaccurate comparison.”

            “I never knew that. The things you learn.” Arthur smiled again, the expression nearly softening his features. “I won’t force you into anything, Sparrow. Just… give me and the Brotherhood a chance.”

            “I’m dedicated to the Brotherhood’s goals in the Commonwealth,” she protested. “It’s just… sad. Sad that in the birthplace of a democratic America, a feudal government’s the only thing that will bring it some peace.”

            “I prefer to think of the Brotherhood as a meritocracy but I see your point,” Arthur sighed. “We should return to the Great Hall for Round Three with the Western Elders.”

            “At least you have Danse on your side,” she pointed out.

            “Why do you think I raised him to Elder?” he observed dryly, offering his arm. “Come.”

            She took it, the Brahmin leather soft beneath her fingers, and allowed him to escort her back to the Great Hall. It was just the appearance of courting to lessen the burden on both of them.


	9. Chaos and Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, slut-shaming and dehumanisation, and mentions of war crimes.

 

“Clint, you’re a fucking genius.”

            Nate slapped his chief lieutenant on the shoulder as the booming of anti-aircraft artillery died away and smoke rose into a cold blue sky. Baker had been relieved to be reassigned to Libertalia because the Major-General was getting sick of his inability to get the guns up and running. At least now he was in a position to pop Maxson’s balloon whenever he pleased.

            Avery had reported the Elder’s return from the south two days ago, three vertibirds carrying the supposed new leader of the Brotherhood’s Commonwealth chapter and the senior staff of the Prydwen. Nate didn’t know a whole lot on Danse beyond the soldier being a stickler for the rules. He liked enemies with that attitude – they were predictable and easy to wipe out.

            “So now we’ve got cannons, what’s the next goal?” Clint asked.

            The Major-General smiled. “We’re taking over Bunker Hill.”

            Of course, the annexation was to cover the reacquiring of several runaway synths and to fuck up the Railroad’s operations in that area. Nate had no damn clue where their new base was, a fact that worried him, but he’d be able to put a serious crimp in the pipeline for escaped synths. Controlling the biggest trade hub in the Commonwealth would also be good for the Gunners.

            “Kessler will love that,” Clint observed dryly.

            “She won’t be in a position to do anything about it.” Nate reached for his sniper rifle. “I wish MacCready had been willing to play ball with us.”

            “So do I. Whoever hired that little fucker out from under us…” Clint’s fists clenched. “Watch your back, sir.”

            “Thanks, Lieutenant. Oh… just so you know, I’m putting you in charge of the Castle. You deserve it.”

            Clint grinned. He’d really taken to the Gunners becoming the replacement for the Minutemen and commanding the Castle detachment was a nice fuck you to the officers who’d screwed him over. “Thanks, sir.”

            “You’re welcome.” Nate touched his forehead and turned for the vertibird that was just setting down.

            Now that Shaun was found and safe, Nate knew it was time to take the battle to the Brotherhood of Steel – but not as they’d understand. Maxson was trying to make himself out to be the Commonwealth’s saviour. A vertibird and the salvaged uniforms from those dead Brotherhood soldiers they’d found around Malden would change the region’s perception of that asshole.

            By the time he was done, Bunker Hill would be begging for the protection of the Gunners.

            _“Turn your enemies against each other,”_ Frances Killian always advised. _“All it takes is a couple false flag operations.”_

 _How could Sparrow’s parents be so practical and her… not?_ Nate had tried to understand the woman, he really had, but she’d been so coddled and sheltered that she was practically useless. If she’d been a proper crime clan wife, they could have achieved great things together. Nate was honest enough to admit that even after a car accident and brain-addling, Sparrow was more charismatic than he. She could have been the sweet to his sour.

            But from the sounds of it, she’d thrown herself into the Brotherhood and perhaps even thrown herself at Maxson. Intel from the south painted him as a young man and he was so uptight that he was probably still a virgin. Or had been until Sparrow got her hands on him. Nate knew enough about her college years to know she’d been around the block with at least several men.

            The car accident and subsequent Institute cybernetic experiments had killed that woman. Or so Nate had thought. God knew she was fairly passive in the bedroom. Maybe he wasn’t commanding enough to interest her. Now _that_ was an insult.

            At least if he could create the appearance of an atrocity at Bunker Hill, she may very well leave, which would mean X6 could grab her. In the Institute, his ex-wife could do no damage and a great deal of good. Maybe Shaun would understand her better than Nate ever did.

            The vertibird was in the air and Nate savoured the scent of cold fresh wind. The Wasteland _stank_ , something he didn’t notice until he reached the Institute and its air purifiers. Once the Brotherhood was handled, Nate would hand over day-to-day command of the Gunners to Clint and his lieutenants and retire there to spend Shaun’s last remaining years with him.

            He was nearing Bunker Hill when he saw the Brotherhood vertibirds, four in number, advancing on the settlement. Every one bore two Paladins in gleaming power armour at the mini-guns. What the hell was going on?

            Then the first flash of Institute teleportation appeared and Nate realised that _someone_ had jumped the gun – probably Ayo. That little prick didn’t trust Nate’s plans for Bunker Hill.

            The ex-soldier cursed softly. This was going to get ugly. But at least he could make it uglier for the Brotherhood.

…

Preston Garvey sat on the bench as the strike force flew towards Bunker Hill. Used to scanning the horizon, he spotted the vertibird – with a very familiar profile wearing a uniform he shouldn’t – before Lancer-Captain Durga. “Finlay’s in a Brotherhood uniform!” he said over the radio.

            “What?” The Lancer-Captain, in another vertibird, sounded surprised.

            “Finlay. The commander of the Gunners. He’s in the vertibird to the left and is heading for Bunker Hill. He’s wearing Brotherhood colours.”

            “Son of a bitch.” Durga didn’t mince words, something Preston could appreciate. “Good spotting, Garvey.”

            “Thank you, ma’am.”

            The four vertibirds shifted their attack pattern to surround Finlay’s vertibird. The plan was to lock down the area around Bunker Hill because several Institute energy readings had been picked up around there. Preston knew that the Railroad probably operated out of Bunker Hill, so there were likely goals around that too, but he was too tired to care. He just wanted the Institute and Maxson gone so that the Commonwealth could be at peace again.

            Then out of nowhere, a missile was fired and it hit the vertibird – piloted by Lancer Fine – on the left. It exploded and absolute pandemonium broke out.

            Afterwards, they’d call it the Battle of Bunker Hill – a three-way grudge match between the Institute, the Brotherhood and the Railroad with the Gunners trying to play a spoiler’s role. Garvey mostly remembered fire, bullets and the screams of terrified people and animals.

            Nate Finlay got away on foot. Several Railroad fighters died but their synths escaped. The Institute synths died down to the last Courser. The last ones standing, battered and bruised, were the Brotherhood. Kessler, white as Brahmin milk beneath the soot and dirt of battle, surrendered Bunker Hill to them.

            Scribes were quickly flown in to tend the injured. Preston found himself working next to Sparrow, who proved herself to be as competent as any Wasteland doctor at field surgery, while Elders Danse and Maxson were trying to find out from Kessler what exactly the fuck had happened.

            The pre-War Vault Dweller had lost her demeanour of doom and gloom. “I’m sorry for being a bitch to you,” she told Preston as they set Old Man Stockton’s broken leg.

            “You weren’t that bad.” He manipulated the shinbone, Sparrow having knocked the caravaner out with Med-X. “So what’s the Capital Wasteland like?”

            Talking about her trip was easier than focusing on the reasons for this mess.

            “It’s green and the water’s pure,” she said softly. “The settlements mostly rule themselves – the Brotherhood mostly keeps its laws to technology and science, and they actively sponsor researchers who are interested in the civilian uses of them.”

            “Sounds like Paradise.”

            “It’s not perfect and they’re not perfect.” Sparrow sighed and looked over the carnage of Bunker Hill. “But I know that Danse and Arthur would never have condoned this.”

            “It was meant to be a lockdown of the area around Bunker Hill because we’ve picked up a lot of energy readings,” he explained, bandaging Stockton’s leg. “Then I saw Nate in a vertibird, wearing Brotherhood colours.”

            Sparrow’s doe-brown eyes went hard. “False flag operation. Wear the enemy’s uniform, do a bit of atrocity, get the civilians on your side when you come riding in to save them. He did a bit of that in Canada.”

            “That explains his presence. But the Railroad’s?”

            “They might have gotten wind of the strike force and made the assumption it was targeted at them. Hell, for all I know, Nate leaked the information to them. More chaos and confusion, turns the population against the Railroad too.”

            “Jesus Christ.” Preston felt ill contemplating it. He did agree with her about Maxson and Danse disdaining such a tactic though. They were both dedicated to the Brotherhood’s image as much as its ideals. “Sparrow, Nate’s got the Castle artillery up and running.”

            Her response was Irish through and through – a savage curse that described the Gunners in no uncertain terms. “We’re between the rock and the hard place. Worse, if what Arthur’s surmised about Shaun is true – the rock and the hard place will work together against us.”

            She was the Brotherhood’s now. He could see it in her gaze and hear how she said, “Us.”

            He was still ambivalent. He knew they meant well but…

            He was still a Minuteman, a believer in Liberty over Security.

            But the Minutemen were dead and he’d handled the settlements over to the Brotherhood to protect them.

            There were no good guys in the Wasteland. Not even him.

            Preston swallowed back his grief and continued to tend the wounded. All he could do was the best he could.

…

When Shaun saw his father’s face, the Director of the Institute almost flinched. Nate was wounded and wearing a bloodied Brotherhood uniform as he stormed into the office. “Bunker Hill went to shit because someone here decided they could do something in my sphere of influence better than me.”

            “Why are you in a Brotherhood uniform?” Dr Ayo demanded testily.

            “Because I was gonna pretend to be one of those assholes and shoot up Bunker Hill, kill Kessler and fuck up the Railroad’s operations there,” Nate replied tightly. “The civvies would have begged the Gunners to take over, which meant we could have retaken runaway synths as they’re often sent through there because it’s a trade hub. It would have also done a fair amount of damage to the Brotherhood’s reputation – you _do_ know they’re setting themselves up as the Commonwealth’s saviour with their agricultural and water purification technology, right?”

             Shaun raked a hand through his grey hair. “I’ll have to take partial responsibility for this, Father. I authorised Director Ayo to send a force of Coursers and Gen-1 synths to reacquire four runaway synths and to shut down Railroad operations in the area. I had no idea that it would conflict with your battle plans.”

            Nate took a deep breath and visibly calmed down. “Every time you want to send a force to the surface, _let me know_. My Gunners might be able to do it with a hell of a lot more discretion than your Coursers can.”

            “That’s a reasonable request,” Alanna Secord said soothingly. “Did you lose any soldiers?”

            “No, but I lost a vertibird and I’m pretty sure Garvey identified me.” His father sat down and pegged Ayo with a glare. “You fuck around with my plans again, Ayo, and I’ll blow your brains out. I’ve tried giving you respect in your field – I expected the same courtesy when it came to my expertise. But next time, the gloves will be off.”

            It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. And Shaun realised just how deadly his father truly was.

            “Father, we need your help.” It was humbling to admit it, especially after Ayo’s idiotic stunt, but Mass Fusion needed to be secured for the Institute. “We need a device called the Beryllium agitator from Mass Fusion. It’s a unique source of energy we can use-“

            “Director, we need to deal with the Railroad first,” Madison Li interrupted with a sigh. “I’d been hoping the Brotherhood could have done it for us but… well, Maxson’s obviously more interested in securing a powerbase first.”

            “Finally, someone with some common sense in addition to a brain,” Nate drawled. “The Railroad are smarter than we think. Hell, they’re professionals.”

            “They certainly knew we and the Brotherhood were coming,” Madison agreed grimly.

            “It may take up to a month for the operation to happen,” Nate continued. “I need to find their new bolthole and since they’re professionals, it’s gonna take at least a week, maybe two. Then I’m gonna have to cut off all lines of escape. Then I’m gonna need a lot of forces. Probably synths and Coursers – my direct Lieutenant is okay about working with the Institute but the rest of my soldiers may have issues. X6 can command the forces under me. He’s competent.”

            “He was my personal bodyguard when I needed such things,” Shaun agreed, grateful that his father – for all his violent surfacer ways – knew the art of war.

            “Well, he’s damn good at what he does.” Nate scratched his chin. “When we go for Mass Fusion, assign a squad to acquire your mother. The Brotherhood will be so distracted that they won’t be watching their own base.”

            Shaun arched his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t care for her?”

            “I don’t. But you do. And your eggheads need her for her genes.” Nate shrugged. “That’s my advice. Because after Mass Fusion, the war will go hot and we can’t guarantee her safety.”

            The scientist closed his eyes. “Thank you, Father. I’m sure once she understands our goals, she’ll appreciate them.”

            “I doubt it. She’s afflicted with a bad bout of useless compassion for even more useless people. But if there’s one thing I know about your mother, it’s that she becomes resigned very quickly to situations she can’t escape from.”

            Shaun already understood that his father was something very close to a psychopath. There were three kinds of people in Nate’s world: those he valued, those he didn’t care about, and those he considered enemies. Basic human empathy, which Sparrow Killian had more than her fair share of, was something he didn’t understand.

            Shaun didn’t either, because it wasn’t a practical talent for science. In some things, he was Nate’s son instead of Sparrow’s.

            Madison sucked in her breath. “Has anyone ever told you what a heartless asshole you can be, Finlay?”

            “Plenty of times, Dr Li. But this asshole’s going to make sure you eggheads are left alone in peace.” Shaun opened his eyes to see Nate smiling cheerfully. “So worry about your job and I’ll worry about mine, okay?”

            “Okay,” Madison agreed unhappily. She was someone very much his mother was supposed to be, only with a practical skillset.

            “We’ll give you what we know on the Railroad,” Shaun said, taking a deep breath. “Let us know when you need the forces.”

            “I will.”


	10. Security, Liberty and Latin Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, and medical experimentation.

 

“Elder, there’s Gunners in the old raider fort north of us.”

            Arthur nodded to Lancer-Captain Kells. “Understood. I am more worried about the artillery at the Castle though.”

            He’d expected an open declaration of war from Nate Finlay, not an insidious attempt to blacken the Brotherhood’s name by murdering innocent civilians in a settlement that trusted them. The other officers had been shocked but for Sparrow. “He’s black ops. That means covert operations of the worst kind. I _told_ you that.”

            She went on to explain what a ‘false flag operation’ was and even Kells, who handled their intelligence and covert operations division, was sickened by the implications. If it hadn’t been for Preston’s keen eye, Finlay might have gotten away with it. The trust that the Brotherhood had been coaxing in the Commonwealth would have been destroyed.

            “Agreed. We need to control that artillery,” Danse growled, turning to Preston. “Do you know if any way we could take the Castle without falling prey to the guns?”

            “If I knew how to do that, I would have taken it when trying to reclaim the Castle for the Minutemen,” he responded bitterly.

            “What was the Castle called in pre-War times?” Sparrow asked gently.

            “Fort Independence but-“

            “Radio the Citadel. The Pentagon kept plans of every viable stronghold in America.” Sparrow’s brown eyes were haunted. “If there’s anything to be found, it will be there.”

            Kells nodded. Since word had come back from the Brotherhood’s stronghold that Arthur was courting the Vault Dweller as a procreative partner, Sparrow had gained a certain amount of quasi-authority and her advice was more likely to be heeded. This didn’t displease the Elder – she was a surprising complement to his own abilities. Her attitude had softened a little towards him.

            Turning the appearance of courting into reality would be something which pleased Arthur very greatly.

            But the war had to be won first.

            “Sparrow, if the Institute was likely to be located anywhere in the Commonwealth, where would it be?”

            “The obvious answer would be beneath the C.I.T ruins but… that might be too obvious.” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t remember a lot of my time in the labs. Just mostly the screaming of those whose bodies rejected the cybernetic implants.”

            “The amount of synths in the C.I.T Rotunda may suggest otherwise,” Rhys, now a Paladin, observed dryly.

            “Or it could be a feint.”

            “I’ll add a request for the architectural plans of C.I.T to the call for Fort Independence’s ones,” Kells suggested. “We may be able to find a weakness there too.”

            Arthur nodded. “Do it.”

            Danse rubbed his chin. “Arthur, I want to evacuate the Prydwen of all non-essential personnel. We’re a significant target here and the Gunners have artillery.”

            “One thing we need to consider is that the Gunners may be working directly or indirectly for the Institute,” Preston said grimly.

            “Most of them wouldn’t know. I imagine even those bastards have their standards,” Rhys pointed out. “Any way we could make it known to the rank and file?”

            “Even the rumour alone would cause significant chaos in their ranks,” Sparrow agreed. “We _do_ need to get the Scribes, Squires and bulk of our forces down to the Airport and Fort Strong. Danse is right about us being a nice big target.”

            “You’re certain that Nate Finlay is working for the Institute that took his son?” Quinlan asked.

            “I’m working on the assumption that Shaun is alive and an active member of the Institute,” Sparrow answered softly. “I must assume the worst, Proctor – we all must. War has no place for optimism.”

            “Apparently it has no place for basic human decency either,” Preston muttered under his breath.

            “For the most part, the Brotherhood approaches its enemies openly and on an equal playing field,” Danse rumbled. “Do we take advantage of superior arms and armour? Do we try to manipulate conditions in our favour? Yes. It’s so we reduce casualties both Brotherhood and civilian.”

            “I’m not a soldier,” Preston admitted. “I joined the Minutemen to help protect people.”

            “I know.” Arthur sighed and looked out the window over Boston. “When this is over, Scribe Garvey, the Commonwealth will need protectors. Rivet City and Megaton, the major settlements in the Capital Wasteland, have their own security forces. I see no reason why the Minutemen can’t rise again. Plenty of Brotherhood soldiers retire into the Rivet City and Megaton forces because they want a life with less battle but aren’t quite ready to become civilians.”

            “But you’ll rule here, just like you do in the Capital Wasteland.” It was a statement, not a question.

            “Perhaps not.” It was Danse who spoke. “I’m not comfortable with being the lord and master of a region. Lost Hills chapter answers to the NCR, however complicated the relationship is, and the Mojave chapter has an alliance with the independent New Vegas. Brotherhood interests come first and we expect fair trade for our protection – but we’re not all neo-feudalistic jackasses.”

            “What Danse does with his chapter, so long as Brotherhood interests aren’t compromised, is his own business,” Arthur confirmed. “But we need to win the war before deciding how to keep the peace.”

            Preston nodded, expression sceptical. “So how are we going to do it?”

            “Because we can’t _officially_ prove Nate was trying to run a false flag operation, we can’t ban the Gunners from Bunker Hill,” Sparrow said with a sigh. “However, this will allow us to spread the rumours about Nate’s involvement with the Institute. If the Gunners revolt, half the battle is won.”

            “We’ll have those architectural plans by tomorrow morning,” Kells added. “Scribes Killian and Garvey, I want you and Proctor Quinlan to go over them with a fine-toothed comb. We need to confirm the location of the Institute in particular.”

            “Maintain a watch over locations of particular scientific and technological interest. As I know from Arcjet, the Institute likes to strip the Commonwealth clean of such things,” Danse said.

            “And the Brotherhood doesn’t?” Preston countered.

            “Much of the civilian technology we acquire is eventually returned to the populace in some form or another,” Quinlan retorted testily. “As for the military technology – look at the danger Gunners present with fairly simple artillery! The idea of something like Liberty Prime in their hands…”

            “Rhys, I want you to secure the Sentinel site in the Glowing Sea,” Danse ordered. “Ingram tells me we’re going to need what’s inside.”

            “On it,” the Paladin said.

            “As for that, we need high-powered magnets,” Ingram added.

            “Why ever for, Proctor? I’m already attracted to you,” jested Teagan, released from the cage for this conference.

            “To make particular limb actuators move, you jackass!” Ingram mimed a blow at her old friend’s head.

            “Anything else?” Arthur asked. “If not, dismissed.”

            His command staff and that of Danse scattered to the winds to perform their duties, leaving Sparrow, Preston and the Elders on the command deck.

            “You’re growing into your role,” Arthur told his old friend and mentor with a smile.

            “I still think I should be your Sentinel,” Danse groused. “Brandis is too old.”

            “But he’ll last long enough to train up a replacement,” Arthur pointed out.

            “Did you mean what you said about not ruling in the Commonwealth?” Preston asked Danse.

            “I did. I was a Wastelander too and while the Capital is used to the Brotherhood being in charge, the Commonwealth is a different kettle of mirelurk stew.” Danse nodded to the former Minuteman. “We can hash out details later. We need to eliminate the Institute and the Gunners first.”

            “If you were Maxson, I’d take your reply with a large grain of salt,” Preston finally said. “But you… I think I can believe in you, Danse.”

            Sparrow arched her eyebrows, radiating amusement for some particular reason, as Arthur scowled. “I keep my word,” the Elder said testily.

            “You’re a king, Maxson. A conqueror.” Preston’s words were soft but blunt. “You’d convince yourself that it’s in the Commonwealth’s best interests to be ruled by the Brotherhood.”

            “It’s the old debate about security versus liberty,” Sparrow observed quietly. “I admit that I tend to prefer security and safety – but not at the utter expense of liberty. After all, someone who exchanges security for liberty deserves neither, as the old saying goes.”

            She nodded to Preston. “To you, freedom is worth more than life, more than safety itself. We need people like that in the world to keep others like Nate from ruling as despots.”

            “The only domain I have ever wanted is the Prydwen and the only subjects the Brotherhood of Steel,” Arthur said softly. “United. Strong. Whole. Restoring the Wasteland one region at a time. I am a lord of war. I understand Finlay in ways you cannot comprehend because we are both weapons. But unlike Finlay, I try to make things better. And maybe one day I will find the end of war because there are no more enemies to fight.”

            Preston sighed. “I’m sorry, Maxson. You’ve done good here. I can admit that. But I’m still a Minuteman at heart, I guess.”

            “Then the Minutemen aren’t dead so long as you breathe.” Arthur sighed and looked away. “Neither of us understands the other yet we have a mutual enemy. Let us end this war and bring the Commonwealth to peace.”

            “I can do that,” Preston said. “I better go. There’s weapons that need modding.”

            “I have forms to sign,” Danse said sourly.

            “Get a Secretary-Scribe,” Arthur suggested. “If they can’t forge your signature by the end of the month, replace them.”

            Sparrow shook her head in amusement. “I should go-“

            “Oh no. I believe some courting is due?” If looks could have killed, the glare Sparrow gave Arthur should have done so instantly.

            “What?” Preston asked in bewilderment.

            “Arthur’s trying to court Sparrow,” Danse said dryly.

            “He’d better start praying for divine intervention then, because that was the lousiest attempt I’ve ever seen since Sturges hit on Curie.”

            Arthur had no idea who Sturges and Curie were but Danse apparently did, because the Commonwealth Elder laughed. “Oh, Arthur makes Sturges look like the king of seduction.”

            Preston regarded Sparrow wryly. “You have my condolences.”

            “He’s not _that_ bad,” Sparrow countered. “He’s more charming than Nate ever was.”

            “That’s… not a high standard to set.” Preston shrugged and turned for the door. “Let me know when the Castle plans are here.”

            Danse followed him, actually smirking. Danse – smirking!

            “Thank you for not comparing me to a feral ghoul in front of them,” Arthur told Sparrow dryly.

            “You’re welcome.” The amusement faded from her features to be replaced with worry. “Arthur-“

            “No. I don’t want to talk about war.” He turned away from her to pour a shot glass of whiskey. “I don’t want to talk about your fucking ex-husband. I don’t want to talk about the Institute. I just… want to talk. With you.”

            “About what?” Sparrow looked a little perplexed.

            Arthur scrambled for a topic. “Books?”

            She nodded slowly. “Books?”

            “Yes. Books.” He offered her the shot glass. “Want some?”

            “Sure.” She accepted the glass and tossed it back with more aplomb than Teagan. Not even a clearing of the throat. “So, favourite book?”

            “Uh…” He wracked his brain for a book that wasn’t about warfare. “The Aeneid.”

            Her eyes lit up. “Which translation?”

            “…There’s more than one translation?”

            “Have you ever read it in the original Latin?” Sparrow tilted her head.

            “…No.”

            “I have. The translations never quite get the real sense of the story.” Sparrow smiled sweetly. “You should look up some Catullus or Ovid. Both were notorious romantic poets in Rome.”

            “Oh?” Romantic Latin poetry? He could manage that. Surely.

            “Militat omnis amans, et habet sua castra Cupido: Attice, crede mihi, militat omnis amans.”

            _Every lover wages a war, Cupid has his own campaign: Believe me, Atticus, every lover wages a war._ Arthur automatically translated the verse she quoted. In her soft, whiskey-warm voice, Latin was a thing of beauty, falling from her lips.

            “Ovid, Amores I, 9.” Sparrow smiled once again.

            “Bellum et vincat.” _A war I will win._

“Fortuna cum eo.” _Good luck with that._

Arthur grinned at her. Challenge accepted.


	11. The War Goes Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, suicide and fantastic racism. AU End of the Line/Tactical Thinking/Precipice of War and Mass Fusion.

 

“Jesus, how did we miss it?”

            Deacon studied the sheaf of papers with a disgruntled expression. It had been all in front of the Railroad the whole damn time – the name of the Gunners’ Major-General, the name of the Director of the Institute. A father looking for his son, the father of the synths.

            The Railroad had become decentralised after fleeing the Old North Church, transmitting coded messages through song requests to Diamond City Radio and the dead drops. Fractures had begun to appear, factions forming within the individual cells. Glory, the rescued synths from Bunker Hill and the few scattered throughout the Commonwealth who knew what they were united in a refusal to run and hide anymore. Desdemona and Carrington were shitting themselves over security protocols at Fort Hagen. Tinker Tom was freaking out about the disruption of his safe routine and the possibility of Institute micro-machines everywhere in Listening Post Bravo. Deacon and Drummer Boy were running themselves ragged trying to keep everything from flying apart.

            Rumour from Bunker Hill was that Nate Finlay had tried to discredit the Brotherhood somehow and that he was aligned with the Institute. Now Deacon knew that the military order was anti-synth to the core. But compared to the Gunners working for the Institute, he’d take his chances with the rulers of the Capital Wasteland. Probably.

            Des swore she had a plan to deal with the Brotherhood called Red Glare. The name alone was ominous.

            At least Mercer Safehouse, located in the northern Commonwealth, hadn’t been compromised. Located just down the road from Sanctuary, the old Red Rocket masqueraded as a trading and repair post run by the synths Sturges and Curie. The Brotherhood considered the northwest passive and therefore did nothing more than routine patrols. At least they killed all the ghouls and deathclaws.

            Deacon idly wondered if the Brotherhood would ever realise that Concord was slowly being peopled by synths under assumed names. He hoped not – not until the Railroad dealt with them.

            “-Alright, everyone, we have a special request from Pam,” Travis Miles said over the radio.

            The Railroad agent set his paperwork aside and listened intently. If P.A.M. was sending a warning or mission-

            “’It’s All Over But the Crying’,” the DJ continued.

            It was Drummer Boy, lounging on the battered loveseat tucked under a window, that understood first. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

            “What?”

            The messenger gave Deacon a bleak look. “Fort Hagen’s been compromised and we’ve lost Des.”

…

“Fort Hagen. Clever of them, I’ll grant that.”

            Nate cracked open a can of Institute purified water and drank, savouring its icy purity. This mission was X6 and him with enough signal grenades to teleport an army of Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths in. Clint reported that some of the Gunners were getting fractious as rumours of what happened at Bunker Hill spread.

            Maxson was more cunning than Nate expected. If the pre-War survivor wanted to be honest, the young Elder might just be his equal as a commander and strategist. Even if Sparrow was the one advising him on what to do – Nate would give her that much credit – he still had the intelligence to use information as a weapon. Everything Nate did, the Brotherhood countered. Everything they did, he found a way around.

            Once the can of water was finished, Nate tucked the tin in his backpack for salvage. “Let’s get this over with,” he told X6-88.

            “Finally,” the Courser replied as he opened the roof trapdoor.

…

“Elder, Fort Hagen’s showing multiple energy readings consistent with those around C.I.T,” reported Scribe Haylen.

            Danse leaned forward and looked at her radar. “What’s at Fort Hagen the Institute would want so badly?”

            It was Kells who supplied the answer. “The Railroad.”

            The new Elder’s fists clenched in excitement. A chance to strike a blow at two enemies. “Scramble Strike Teams Cambridge and Normandy. I want that building reduced to rubble.”

            “Done.”

…

The song requests were flying thick and fast over Diamond City Radio. Poor Travis must be wondering what the fuck was going on.

            P.A.M had already calculated the demise of the Fort Hagen cell. That left Randolph, Ticonderoga, Bravo, Mercer and Concord. Stockton was stuck in Bunker Hill with a broken leg. Deacon had to give the Brotherhood props for cleaning up the mess there. Reluctantly.

            By noon, Glory was at Bravo with the three or four other synths who served as heavies. “We’re going to extract P.A.M,” she announced. “If the Brotherhood or the Institute get a hold of her-“

            Deacon was already reaching for his weapons. If P.A.M was in danger, that meant Randolph was compromised.

…

The Railroad had scattered to the winds and the Fort Hagen leaders killed themselves rather than be interrogated. Nate could almost admire that kind of determination and loyalty to a cause.

            He did _not_ admire the vertibirds coming in from the east. Instead, he grabbed the Fat Man and mini nukes from the Fort Hagen armoury. It was like killing big bloatflies-

            Mini-gun fire ripped through brick and concrete, forcing Nate to run. The vertibirds circled around like vultures on a corpse, shredding the Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths easily. Multiple projectiles meant that Nate couldn’t stop and fire the Fat Man to take the fucking things down.

            X6 grabbed his hand and initialised the relay. As the world turned blue, Nate swore he was going to pop Maxson’s balloon the next time he was at the Castle.

…

Sparrow tapped the architectural plans of C.I.T. “There. Someone can get through there into the Institute proper.”

            Arthur came up to her, a line of warmth at her side, as he examined the cooling vent for the reactor that surely ran their power needs. “Yes. An agent or two could get in there with a hacking holotape, gain access to their teleporter and let us in.”

            She took a deep breath. “It needs to be me.”

            Arthur paused, a frown darkening his features. “Why?”

            “Because I’m small, light and fast. Because my cybernetic eye will pick up synths even in the dark. Because…” She took a deep breath. “I need to know the truth for myself. I need to do something more than sit on the sidelines. Because, after this point, I’m expendable.”

            The warlord’s frown deepened. “You are not a great combatant.”

            “But I can take out synths. And I’ll be taking the mercenary MacCready with me.”

            Arthur looked even unhappier. “Do you trust him?”

            “His reputation is solid. And…” Sparrow sighed. “He’s good enough to shoot me if something goes wrong and doesn’t know enough to compromise the Brotherhood.”

            Suicide was a sin. But hiring someone to take her out so she couldn’t reveal critical information wasn’t.

            The Elder’s expression twisted with what she realised was misery. “I want to forbid this. But I can’t.”

            “No, you can’t. I’m going to need every Stealth Boy we’ve got, RadAway and Rad-X for the water and a whole lot of prayers.”

            Arthur nodded, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Come back to me. Dying will ruin the appearance of our courtship.”

            “Yes, we must keep up appearances,” Sparrow said dryly, touched by the sign of gentleness.

            “Yes, we must,” Arthur agreed.

            “Elder Maxson?” Haylen appeared at the door. “We’ve found the Railroad headquarters but the Institute beat us there.”

            Arthur hissed a curse. “Salvage what we can and then demolish the building.”

            “Danse already gave those orders.” The Head Scribe looked troubled. “We can confirm Nate Finlay’s working for the Institute. He and a Courser teleported out.”

            “Nice to have confirmation. Once the Strike Teams return, I want us to prepare for the assault on Mass Fusion.” Arthur’s fists clenched. “It’s time to end this once and for all.”

            Sparrow could certainly agree with that sentiment.

…

Randolph was compromised but P.A.M escaped. At the core of it she was still an Assaultron and capable of mayhem. Between her and the synth heavies, the Institute forces didn’t stand a chance.

            “The Brotherhood and Institute will next converge on Mass Fusion,” she predicted calmly. “The Beryllium Agitator will be necessary for their next steps.”

            Deacon grinned evilly despite his aching heart. “Let’s beat them to it. I have just the crew.”

…

“Arthur, is it just me or am I seeing the USS Constitution flying across the skyline?”

            Sparrow’s voice was incredulous and Arthur couldn’t believe the sight himself. Then he calculated their destination. “They’re going to Mass Fusion. We need to secure that component now.”

            Recon Squad Gladius, under Sentinel Rhys, was already heading to the vertibird with Proctor Ingram in tow. Danse had already anticipated the need and given the orders. He was a damn good Elder.

            “Whoever’s flying it knows what they’re doing,” Sparrow observed. “At least we know it’s not the Institute.”

            “You’re right. That’s… not their style. Nor the Gunners.” Arthur tore his eyes from the sight and looked down at the woman he was going to be sending into danger within hours, if not days. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go to Cambridge.”

            She nodded and left the flight deck. Arthur turned to watch the USS Constitution, wondering just who was flying that thing.

…

Nate had barely got into the Institute when Shaun was telling him to take Allie Filmore to the Mass Fusion. It was a good time to do it – while the Brotherhood were distracted by the Railroad. Once the reactor was up and running, things would be a lot easier. They could conduct the war openly and put the Brotherhood into the ground.

            Except that yet again, Maxson anticipated him, Brotherhood soldiers coming in on a vertibird. This time, Nate had all the time in the world to fire the Fat Man and bring those bastards down. A second mini-nuke wiped out the Paladin who survived.

            But a second force was landing on the roof and Allie cursed. “We need to get into the basement!”

            “Stand back,” Nate ordered as he readied the Fat Man. He had four more shells.

            She wisely threw every signal grenade they had to call in fifty powerful synths. “Stop the force on the roof!”

            Nate pounded a hole into the floor so that they could skip the elevator. Now he was out of mini-nukes but in a building, the weapon was more hindrance than help. He grabbed Allie Filmore and jumped down from level to level, glad that old Killian had insisted his boys learn some basic acrobatics. The egghead was so light that he did it with relative ease.

            They just bypassed security and Nate was prepping grenades to deal with the various Protectrons when the roof force reached the basement. A vaguely familiar white-haired, sepia-toned woman carrying a mini gun landed lightly on her feet with Deacon of the Railroad on her back.

            “Hi Granddad,” she greeted Nate with a savage smile. “My name’s Glory.”

            Behind them, the Protectrons were being engaged by other robots of varying descriptions, and Nate actually laughed. “Liberated the toasters, I see?”

            “The crew of the USS Constitution fights for the rights of all American citizens,” Deacon said, falling into a knife fighter’s crouch. “Even synths.”

            Nate threw a grenade at ‘Glory’ as Allie wisely dropped under the console. With Courser-like agility she dropped her mini-gun and kicked it in the direction of a laser turret. Then she closed in to grapple with him – a mistake he intended to make her last.

            But Glory was his superior in strength and speed, her technique unrelentingly brutal. Nate was hard-pressed to stay alive, let alone actually attack the synth, and he felt a surge of irrational pride that this granddaughter of his was a killer.

            He’d killed his own kind before. So when she grabbed him by the shirtfront to throw against the glass window, Nate leaned in close and clamped his teeth around her jugular, ripping out a chunk of flesh. She tasted like copper and adrenaline.

            Blood sprayed out as she dropped him, hand going to her throat in a futile attempt to staunch the flow, and Nate went for the combat knife in his boot.

            Except that he’d forgotten about Deacon, who circled around and buried a switchblade in his kidneys with two quick strikes.

            Nate yelled and activated his Pipboy to return to the Castle, leaving Allie to her fate.

…

Deacon watched Spark, one of the synth heavies with a knack for tech, affix the Beryllium Agitator to the USS Constitution’s rocket system. Glory was getting treated by Sawbones the medical robot and they’d lost two heavies. Nate Finlay had the luck of the devil, it seemed, because he’d escaped.

            “Good to know we’ll never run out of fuel,” Captain Ironsides observed. “I owe you a debt, Deacon.”

            “You saved a lot of people today, Cap’n,” the agent replied. “We better clear out before the Brotherhood sends their people to clean up.”

            “Agreed. I bear them no ill will – the sky is big enough for the both of us – but conflicts are always best avoided.” Ironsides gave a series of orders and the remaining robotic crew leapt to it.

            Hopefully the rest of the Railroad was safe. The war had gone hot today and more than ever, the synths would need someone to keep them alive. Deacon just hoped the Institute and the Brotherhood didn’t tear the Commonwealth apart in their little grudge fest.

…

“On the downside, we didn’t get what we needed,” Ingram, the sole survivor of the squad sent to Mass Fusion reported wearily. “On the upside, we got a way to replicate it and an Institute scientist who wants to cooperate with us in return for the safety of her family.”

            “Good.” Arthur clasped his arms behind his back. “You have a day to get Liberty Prime running. We have an appointment to keep.”

            After long consideration, he’d switched from planning to use Liberty Prime to punch a hole through the Institute’s roof to instead using it to take the Castle and wipe out the Gunners. Sparrow and MacCready were skilled enough at stealth – by the Steel, he hated the idea of sending her into danger but tactically she was the only one who could be spared -  to get inside and take control of the relay.

            His fists clenched. Soon, this war would be over and the Commonwealth at peace, purged of a cancer at its heart.

            Ad Victoriam. The Brotherhood would win, because defeat was unacceptable.


	12. King of the Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

“Jesus Christ.”

            “No, its name is Liberty Prime.”

            Preston stared at the giant robot that the Brotherhood were going to use to wipe out the Gunners at the Castle and found his mouth twitching at Maxson’s dry comment. The reassurance that the Commonwealth wouldn’t be conquered like the Capital Wasteland had eased a lot of tension between them. That Danse would be running the chapter here made him a whole lot happier. He didn’t get men like Maxson but he got someone like Danse.

            The Prydwen had been evacuated of all non-essential staff. Those who stayed on board knew they were sitting targets if the Gunners managed to shoot the artillery at the Castle before Liberty Prime got there. Maxson promoted all of them on the spot except for Lancer-Captain Kells, who got as far as he could in the ranks.

            Sparrow and MacCready were prepping for their stealth run into the guts of the Institute. Maxson had already dispatched a cure for blue-boil disease down south for the mercenary’s son; turns out they’d had a mutual acquaintance, someone named Jamie, that was a big hero in the Capital Wasteland. Until the war was over, MacCready was working for the Brotherhood out of gratitude.

            He nodded curtly to Maxson and went to stand by Danse, who was signing some final requisition forms. Rhys and Recon Squad Gladius had been killed, presumably by Nate Finlay, after trying to get the Beryllium Agitator from Mass Fusion. “I’m sorry about Rhys,” the former Minuteman told the Elder.

            “So am I,” Danse said with a sigh. “When this is done, I can properly mourn him and the others.”

            “We’ll raise a cup to all the dead,” Preston promised.

            “Indeed.” Danse tapped the pen against his lips thoughtfully. “Preston – for this engagement, I’m bucking you from the Scribes to the Knights. And if you’d like, I want to make you a Sentinel.”

            He stared at the Elder. “…What?”

            “You know the Castle. You know combat and frontline command. And with Rhys dead, I don’t have anyone with the experience who can be trusted to act independently in the field. You can resign when this is over. But until then-“

            Preston took a deep breath. “I don’t want this. But you’re right. I’ll lead the ground troops as Sentinel.”

            “Good.” Danse gave him a relieved smile. “So go arm and armour up.”

            Because he was useless in power armour, Preston settled for good combat armour and a Brotherhood officer’s uniform. Ingram was making good progress on the Beryllium Agitator because she already knew how it had to be made – and every science Scribe in the Brotherhood was dedicated to this one job.

            “Preston?” It was Sparrow, her face streaked with power armour grease around the eyes, hair slicked down with more of the stuff. In her grey-black officer’s uniform and darkened combat armour, she looked like one of the War-Queen’s ravens. “I found this.”

            She held out a Minuteman’s hat. Not the slouched one he’d lost at the Castle, but one with notches in the brim and a slightly battered crown.

            “That’s not Brotherhood issue,” Danse growled. “Preston needs to wear a helmet.”

            “Preston’s not Brotherhood issue either,” the Scribe countered amusedly. “It’s a Minuteman’s hat.”

            The Commonwealth Elder knew when to shut up. Preston took the hat with a smile to the Irish woman and put it on. Now he felt… almost normal.

            Almost himself.

            “We’ll be leaving once Liberty Prime does,” she explained softly. “It’s a bit of a walk to Cambridge and I don’t know how long our mission will take.”

            “May the road rise to meet you,” he said.

            “If worst comes to worst, may you be at Heaven’s gates an hour before the Devil knows you’re dead,” she responded.

            “Thanks.”

            “You’re welcome.” She smiled once more and turned away.

            Danse sighed. “I wish we’d taken the Castle before… all of this happened.”

            Preston studied his combat boots. “If I’d done some proper scouting, the Minutemen would still be around and the Gunners not a problem.”

            “Proctor Quinlan says hindsight is always perfect.” Danse’s massive shoulders shrugged. “We should get into position. Liberty Prime will be ready to go in an hour or so.”

            Preston nodded. “I wish it wasn’t this way. But it will be good to have the Castle back again.”

…

“Fuck that, Clint! He’s working for the Institute!”

            Baker stood on the balls of his feet, a solid man in reinforced combat armour, ready for a fight. Behind him stood roughly a third of the Gunners in the north, the entire detachment sent to Libertalia. Nate wanted to know how the hell they’d gotten past the Brotherhood.

            Even stimpaks couldn’t help a double kidney-stab in just over a day. He’d spent most of the time dosed up on Med-X and even now, a trace of euphoria lingered in his veins. But since Baker was directly defying the Castle’s Lieutenant, Nate was forced out of bed sooner than he should be.

            “You had your orders, Baker.” Nate kept his words clipped and cold. “Why aren’t you watching the Brotherhood from the north?”

            “Because I’m not working for someone who used us to join up with the Institute,” Baker retorted flatly. “I thought you hated them!”

            “Until he found out his son ran the whole thing, he did,” Clint replied before Nate could. “We don’t ask questions about our employers, Baker. We take the caps and get the job done.”

            “Well, I’m not following a man who works for the scum who took my sister,” Baker announced. “I don’t even know why we’ve picked a fight with the Brotherhood, anyway. Artillery or not, they’ve got _thousands_ of troops. I think we should offer terms and work with them-“

            Even slightly intoxicated from drugs, Nate was good at throwing knives, and the blade that sprouted from Baker’s eye had been specially balanced. A gift from old Killian back in the day.

            “We have the upper hand,” he announced harshly, stooping down to retrieve his combat knife. “We have artillery. The Institute doesn’t give a fuck about the surface so long as they can continue with their experiments. Follow me and we’ll be the new rulers of the Commonwealth.”

            Then something splashed into the sea, sending the waves surging high enough to batter the walls of Fort Independence, and one of the guards began to pray in Irish to the Virgin Mary.

            “Democracy is the essence of good. Communism, the very definition of evil.”

            The robotic voice echoed across the harbour as a giant fucking robot left the Airport, wading through water deep enough to hide ten thousand corpses determinedly. Mini-nukes loaded into its right hand and were flung unerringly at the artillery pointed at the Prydwen, destroying it and the wall they sat on.

            “’Upper hand’, huh?” It was Tessa who spoke. “Fuck this, I’m out of here.”

            It was then Nate discovered the downside of having an army comprised of people just like him – when the shit hit the fan, the selfish thought only of their own survival. Every Gunner in the place streamed for the gates furthest away from the advancing robot. Why the fuck hadn’t that thing been deployed at Anchorage? It looked pre-War.

            “Defeat is not an option.”

            While the robot approached from one side, Nate realised that Maxson was flanking the Castle from the other with vertibirds. Vertibirds with mini-guns and Paladins carrying Fat Man launchers.

            He pressed the button on his Pipboy to teleport himself to the Institute…

            …Except that it didn’t work.

            It was carnage. Caught between the hammer and the anvil, the Gunners were butchered, Maxson obviously not in a mood to show mercy. Nate bolted for the robot’s side, hoping that it was too big to notice him-

            Then a single beam of scarlet cut through the lower part of his cybernetic leg and sent him sliding face-first into the dirt of the Castle courtyard.

            “Going somewhere, Finlay?”

            Nate turned himself over to face Preston Garvey, wearing Brotherhood colours, combat armour and the Minuteman’s cowboy hat. The black man’s missing right hand had been replaced with a skeletal prosthetic and he cranked up his laser musket for another shot.

            Even crippled, Nate was the superior soldier. He pulled Kellogg’s Colt .45 from the back of his pants-

            -And the gun was shot out of his hand by the big bastard in power armour that Nate supposed must be Elder Danse. He certainly didn’t look like a Maxson.

            “I spent a lot of nights thinking of what I’d do if I ever had you in this position,” Preston observed in little more than a whisper. “How I’d repay the pain you put me through. How I’d take revenge for every Minuteman you killed.”

            Nate swallowed past the metallic-tasting lump in his throat. “So go ahead.”

            The Minuteman shook his head. “No. Because I’m not like you.”

            He lined up his laser musket. “You have ten seconds to make your peace with God, asshole.”

            Nate smiled mirthlessly, forcing himself to sit up. “Executing an unarmed crippled man in cold blood, Garvey? You are no better than me.”

            Words were weapons and if he could make Garvey flinch, he could reach for the .45, go out fighting-

            Something burned through his gut and when Nate looked down in disbelief, he saw a charred smoking hole.

            “Your ten seconds is up.”

            Darkness took Nate as he gawped up at the Minuteman in shock.

…

Preston wiped his lips after he’d vomited his breakfast and the memory of every morsel to ever enter his mouth. He’d done something he’d never thought he could do – execute a man in cold blood. Even if he deserved it. But he had.

            Maxson handed him a can of water as the Paladins rounded up the rest of the Gunners. Between Liberty Prime and the Strike Forces, it had been meat in the sausage grinder. Now Preston understood the concept of total war and thanked God that the Brotherhood were nominally on the side of the angels.

            “Can you clean up here?” the Prydwen’s Elder asked. “I want to take the rest of the forces to Cambridge immediately.”

            Preston nodded. Only a quarter of the Brotherhood’s forces – including Liberty Prime – were committed to retaking the Castle. The rest were on route to Cambridge for the second phase of the war. “I can. Thanks for the water.”

            Maxson looked at him soberly. “That you feel sick after such a thing makes you a better man than I,” he rasped.

            “You’re a better man than Finlay was,” Preston assured him.

            The Elder’s mouth quirked. “According to Sparrow, a feral ghoul is less distasteful than Nate Finlay.”

            His expression grew sombre. Somewhere, the woman Preston was fairly certain that Maxson loved was creeping into the most hellish place in the Commonwealth. “Danse-“

            “I’ll leave a detachment here under Sentinel Garvey’s command and join you,” the Commonwealth Elder promptly replied. “You’re not kicking the door of the Institute down without me.”

            “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Maxson squared his broad shoulders and nodded to Preston. “I leave the Castle in your hands because it needs no king.”

            Danse smiled at Preston as Maxson walked away. “You’re a good Sentinel.”

            “I helped kill a group of people and executed a man in cold blood.” Preston could taste bile in his mouth.

            “You retook a fortification from the enemy with zero casualties on your side and avenged the Minutemen,” Danse corrected gently. “War is never pretty, Sentinel. But when it comes down to it, better someone like you be the victor than someone like Nate Finlay.”

            He tossed his power armour helmet in his hands and put it on. “I’ll see you on the other side. Don’t stay up too late waiting for me.”

            “See you on the other side,” Preston agreed.

            Then he turned to make sure the Gunner prisoners were being treated properly. Maybe there might be some salvageable soldiers amongst them.


	13. Mother and Son Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for ableism, classism, fantastic racism and dehumanisation, and mentions of drug addiction, torture and medical experimentation.

 

Sparrow slowly opened her eyes and saw the kind of sterile white tiles she hadn’t seen since the hospital Shaun was born in. Since they’d closed on stained concrete and rusty corrugated steel, there was only one place she could be.

            “So this is the Institute,” she observed in a whisper, wondering where MacCready was. She remembered little beyond the sudden firefight after they’d gotten past the first terminal. Hopefully he got away to warn Arthur and the others.

            “Yes,” sighed an old, weary baritone with an educated British accent. Sparrow sat up in the bed, clean polyester/cotton sheets sliding off her hospital-gowned body, and rubbed her forehead. Whatever drugs in her veins were fading rapidly, no doubt burned off by the resistance she’d built during her Daytripper/Calmex addiction.

            “The mercenary with me?” Best to ask after her partner on the mission.

            “Gone. Not that it matters because a Courser will find him.” The baritone might have been discussing a slight inconvenience, not sending a hunter-killer after a man.

            Sparrow looked to her right and saw a thin, wasted version of Nate with silver hair sitting on a comfortable chair beside her bed. Death lurked in the hollow green-hazel eyes and the lines of his pursed mouth. His hands were soft and white – a bureaucrat’s hands. Only the arch of her eyebrows and a few strands of chestnut-brown hair showed the Killian blood in him.

            “Shaun.” Her tone was carefully neutral.

            “Mother. It’s good to finally meet you.”

            “If Frances Killian heard you speaking in a British accent, he’d be spinning in his grave,” she finally said.

            Shaun blinked slowly. “I hardly see how the opinion of a centuries-dead Irish criminal has anything to do with us.”

            “Because he trained your father. The one who fled when Mass Fusion was attacked and left Allie Filmore behind.”

            Alarm leapt in Shaun’s eyes. “Is she alive?”

            “In Brotherhood custody, cooperating fully because she wants to protect her family.” Sparrow remained calm. She didn’t know what Shaun wanted – beyond her DNA – but she would try to buy the Brotherhood time enough to reach the C.I.T ruins. The stealth run had been the first plan but not Arthur’s only one.

            Looking at the wasted face of her son, all she felt was weariness. Not grief. Not love. Not even regret. Shaun had been doomed from birth with parents like her and Nate, grandparents like Elisabeth and Frances.

            Shaun closed his eyes. “Regrettable. We will have to sacrifice the one to save the many.”

            “And there’s Elisabeth Killian speaking.”

            “Grandmother understood pragmatism like few others.”

            “That wasn’t a compliment.”

            Shaun blinked again, regarding her strangely. “You’re not happy to see me?”

            “You have advanced science and technology that could make the Commonwealth a new Eden,” Sparrow said softly. “But instead you play God, terrorise the Wastelanders and pretend it’s for the betterment of humanity. So no, Shaun, I’m not happy to see you.”

            His lips tightened. “We once reached out to the Commonwealth and when the CPG delegates turned on each other, our synth representative was the last one standing! No, it’s better we leave them to their devices. Humanity aboveground is dying and now we have our reactor, we need interact with them as little as possible.”

            “I spent the first few months of my time outside the Vault as an itinerant field worker after your father abandoned me,” Sparrow told him. “I’ve travelled to the Capital Wasteland, where the fields are green and the water pure. There’s the New California Republic and New Vegas to the west. Humanity isn’t dying, Shaun, it’s rebuilding.”

            She thought of Preston’s desire for freedom and justice. Danse’s dedication to protecting others. Arthur’s wish to make the East Coast a better place the best way he knew how.

            “You steal people and replace them with copies. You kidnap settlers to experiment on. You’ve created sapient beings to be your slaves. How is this moral or ethical, Shaun?”

            Brotherhood doctrine demanded the deaths of all synths but practically speaking, even Arthur knew that wasn’t going to be possible. So he would focus on sifting through the Institute’s databases for what could be salvaged by the Scribes, end the production of synths and execute those responsible for the worst scientific atrocities.

            Shaun’s eyes glittered. “Your cybernetic eye comes from necessary medical experimentation-“

            “I had nightmares for years. Twenty of us entered that programme and five of us exited. The others died screaming as synthetic body parts rejected, poisoning them from within. Of the five who survived, three… vanished. Only me and your father remained.” Sparrow regarded him grimly. “I’m betting you’ve experimented with the Forced Evolutionary Virus and only the Lord knows what else. Science is just like any other tool – wielded without morals or ethics, it is a dangerous thing.”

            Her son snorted derisively. “And you believe the Brotherhood has the morals and ethics?”

            “They’re a damn sight better than the Enclave – the faction that sponsored the Institute in the early days – or being overrun by ferals and super mutants.” Sparrow shook her head. “I once looked away in order to preserve my life, Shaun, when I was younger. I can’t do so now.”

            “Father wasn’t kidding when he said that you were brain-damaged,” Shaun observed acidly.

            “It’s called a conscience, Shaun, something you’re obviously not acquainted with.” Sparrow sighed and looked down at her work-hardened hands. “Or consequences, apparently.”

            Shaun’s smile was thin. “We already have the plan in place to destroy the Brotherhood.”

            “Oh?” Sparrow drew on her legal training. And since her son appeared to be acting like a bad megalomaniacal science fiction villain, perhaps he would oblige her by telling her his plans.

            “A synth uploaded with a virus to hack Liberty Prime,” Shaun replied bluntly. “It will explode and destroy the Prydwen.”

            “Which has thousands of people, including hundreds of civilians, on it.” Sparrow’s tone was flat.

            “The Brotherhood would annihilate us. I would prefer to beat them to it.”

            Shaun rose stiffly to his feet. “I would prefer your cooperation, Mother. I don’t think you understand our goals. It’s alright – the Institute is an educational facility as well as a scientific one.”

            “Shaun, my education is probably better than yours,” Sparrow observed dryly. “I studied the Humanities stream at Harvard before attending Suffolk County School of Law to obtain a Juris Doctor – postgraduate education, essentially. If not for the car accident that saw me in the care of the Institute, I might have gone on to study for a PhD. So don’t treat me like I’m a high school dropout like your father was.”

            “Useless knowledge,” Shaun said dismissively, turning around. “Now get up and get dressed. If you’re well enough to argue, you’re well enough to walk around.”

            Sparrow obeyed, noting that he’d left her Pipboy around her wrist. Checking the time discreetly as she pulled on the white tunic and pants folded over a chair, she saw that the assault on the Castle would likely be finished by now for good or ill. Arthur would be expecting the signal to prepare the troops for molecular relay within a few hours.

            It was a good thing she’d recorded the network scanner on an old holotape titled ‘Celtic Fiddle Solos’ or he would have confiscated that with her Brotherhood belongings.

            Shaun led her out into a courtyard that smelt like lemon bleach, lush with greenery and peopled by Gen-3 synths who scurried about under the threatening eye of the Coursers and scientists. “Life is good here, Mother, and we will ask little of you. A few tests and DNA samples. In return you may live a life of comfort and leisure unavailable in the Wasteland.”

            _If you think that’s what I want, Shaun, you know me so little._

            Sparrow had learned to fend for herself, to trust in others and to look for hope in the strangest places. She’d tested her temper and tongue against the most powerful in the Wasteland and walked away. She’d survived at subsistence level and debated in Latin with scientists and warlords. She’d made friends and… maybe found love again.

            Shaun’s plan would take that all away.

            But Sparrow remained silent as she followed Shaun into somewhere called Advanced Systems, where a vaguely familiar woman was testing something. Iron-haired and bird-boned, her face was drawn with grief and concern.

            “Madison, could you make sure my mother’s ocular implant isn’t interfering with any of her brain functions?” Shaun asked calmly.

            _Dr Madison Li. One of the scientists who worked on Project Purity._

“She debated with you, didn’t she?” Madison asked, setting aside the chip she was looking at.

            Shaun scowled. “My mother needs educating on the goals of the Institute but I need to know if she has cognitive issues first so we can tailor the programme to her capabilities.”

            “Asinorum sanguinum,” Sparrow muttered under her breath. _Bloody jackass._

Madison’s brown eyes glinted in amusement. It seemed that Shaun’s education hadn’t extended to Latin. “Of course, Director,” she agreed smoothly. “Have you heard from your father?”

            “Not yet. Mother claims that he left Allie Filmore at Mass Fusion after an attack.”

            “It’s true,” Sparrow confirmed. “She’s in Brotherhood custody and cooperating fully with Elder Arthur Maxson in return for the protection of her family.”

            Shaun flashed her an irritated look. “Father wasn’t kidding when he claimed you had no discretion. Unless you’re lying-“

            “I was one of those who questioned her,” Sparrow interrupted calmly. “I won’t say she’s being treated like royalty but she’s got a bed and three meals a day, no one is using enhanced interrogation techniques on her, and she’s not likely to get shot in the head anytime soon.”

            All of it true. The file on Madison at the Citadel pointed out that she was relatively idealistic and had left because of the death of James, the Lone Wanderer’s father, not precisely because of doctrinal disagreements with the Brotherhood.

            Shaun huffed in annoyance. “Madison, let me know when the examination’s done.”

            “Certainly, Director.”

            Her son left and the scientist in charge of Advanced Systems sighed. “You’ll want these back,” she said in excellent Latin, producing Sparrow’s Brotherhood holotags from a pocket. “I won’t say I’m happy to see the Brotherhood here but… well… with recent changes in the Institute, I won’t say I’m sorry either.”

            Sparrow nodded and put on her holotags. “Maxson’s somewhere between the Lyons and the conservatives in his policy, but Jacqueline Lee is now Elder in Lost Hills, Veronica Santangelo due to succeed McNamara in the Mojave, and Danse is Elder in the Commonwealth. Casdin still holds the Capital Wasteland but he’s not young and Maxson himself is Elder of the Prydwen.”

            Madison’s jaw dropped. “Jesus Christ.”

            “Project Purity worked. The Capital Wasteland is green and the water pure. Settlements under Brotherhood control here are already receiving G.E.C.K-modified crops and smaller versions of the purifier.” Sparrow rattled off the accomplishments that she knew of. “Rivet City is a scientific educational institute where many Scribes get their training-“

            The scientist held up her hand. “I get it. The Brotherhood isn’t completely doctrinaire now.”

            “Oh, they are. But Maxson’s interpreted it to include using civilian technology and science to help outsiders, if only out of self-interest.” Sparrow suspected she wouldn’t believe Arthur was an idealist.

            “So what are the plans for the Institute if we fall?” Madison asked bluntly.

            “Preservation of beneficial technology, the ending of synth production and the execution of those who engaged in the atrocities,” Sparrow answered with equal candour. “I suspect that scientists who surrender will be impressed as Scribes, but I can’t be certain. I _do_ know that anyone who raises a weapon when Maxson kicks the door in will be treated as the enemy.”

            “You sound very certain of Maxson’s victory,” Madison said slowly.

            Sparrow’s smile was grim. “You haven’t seen Arthur Maxson since he was ten. I assure you, he is a highly competent strategist who matched Nate Finlay on the battlefield and even sent him running at Fort Hagen. I suspect, by now, that my ex-husband and the Gunners are dead and defeated.”

            Madison licked her lips nervously. “I’ve lost faith in the Institute. But I don’t trust the Brotherhood.”

            “I understand.”

            “Your cognitive functions are fine,” Madison said, changing the subject as a Courser with umber-toned skin entered the lab. “You really should give the Institute a chance.”

            “Dr Li, I am here to escort Mrs Finlay to her quarters,” the Courser announced. “If she will come with me.”

            It was an order, not a suggestion, and Sparrow nodded. “Yes, sir.”

            “I am to be addressed as X6-88, ma’am.” The Courser was unfailingly polite as they left the lab. “A full history of the Institute has been uploaded to the terminal in your quarters, which also has access to all public networks in our system. Father seems very intent on converting you to our cause.”

            Sparrow made a noise as she smiled inwardly. Internal access was _precisely_ what she needed.


	14. The Lord of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and dehumanisation. Showtime, folks!

 

“Elder Maxson, we just received access to the Institute’s internal systems!”

            Arthur checked the Maxson pocket watch passed down from Roger himself. Just within the time he’d allowed for Sparrow and MacCready to succeed before programming Liberty Prime to head for the C.I.T ruins. “Good. Ingram, teleport Strike Teams Cambridge and Normandy inside, then set Liberty Prime’s course for Gunners Plaza. If Quinlan’s belief that they’ll target it is true…”

            “Yes, Elder.” Ingram’s fingers danced over the terminal’s keyboard. “See you on the other side.”

            Everyone had their missions. Secure each individual area of the Institute, eliminate resistance, take prisoner everyone who surrendered. Arthur had been stunned to discover that there was a whole community under the Commonwealth – though he should have expected it – and how… normal they were. Allie Filmore could have fit into the Rivet City science community easily.

            He wasn’t certain about synth sapience but he knew the Brotherhood didn’t have the resources to hunt down every broom-wielding Gen-3 who took advantage of the chaos to escape. Danse would have quite the job on his hands when this was over, assuming the Railroad let him live in peace instead of moving the synths elsewhere. What mattered was that no more scientists would play God in the Commonwealth.

            The world vanished in a wave of blue-white light and when it reappeared, he and the Strike Teams were in a circular chamber of steel and little lights.

            “Hello?” asked a Gen-1 synth guard just before Arthur twisted its neck with his bare hands.

            Danse was still on the outside, coordinating efforts until the majority of the facility was secured and more soldiers could be brought in. Arthur had claimed the right of first entrance for himself, giving vent to more sentimentalism than tactical sense, because… he wanted to make sure Sparrow was safe.

            The Brotherhood troops fanned out, Sentinel Brandis staying behind to put in another network scanner that would give the Brotherhood complete control of the facility. That Sparrow and MacCready weren’t in this room troubled him – but perhaps they’d found somewhere safe to wait out the conflict. Arthur hoped so at least.

            So far, all they encountered was Gen-1s and a few Gen-2s. It appeared that on this level, security wasn’t as good as it should have been.

            And then he heard a familiar voice chivvying people on the other side of the wall. “I don’t want to be around when Maxson levels the place,” Madison Li said flatly.

            “That makes a few of us, Madison,” observed a young man. “But he can’t get in, right?”

            “The Brotherhood has a giant robot called Liberty Prime. Trust me, they’ll get in. I know, I worked on that thing.”

            “Why can’t they just leave us alone?” a younger woman asked bewilderedly.

            “Because the Institute didn’t leave the Commonwealth alone. Come on, I know the Wasteland is rough, but you’ll _love_ Rivet City and they won’t know who you are there…”

            Arthur found himself gesturing to the Strike Teams to let them pass. If they were in Rivet City, he’d know who they were. Perhaps they might even do some good.

            Then they emerged into a room with an elevator that barely held one team, let alone two. Arthur nodded to Knight Proud, their demolitions expert, and everyone else backed away as he applied frag mines to the elevator.

            The Brotherhood announced its presence with a literal bang and as Knight Proud jet-packed his way to the top, the screams began.

            “This is Scribe Sparrow Killian of the Brotherhood of Steel,” announced a very welcome voice over some kind of PA system. “I strongly advise _not_ picking up weapons against the Brotherhood soldiers because no mercy will be shown to those under arms. If you surrender, I promise you will not be slaughtered out of hand. If you fight, I cannot promise your safety.”

            “You heard Lady Maxson,” Proud told the others as he helped each of them climb up the elevator. “No shooting anyone unless they’re stupid enough to fight back.”

            “She hasn’t agreed to marry me yet,” Arthur pointed out once he was up.

            “Only because you haven’t proposed,” Proud said dryly.

            More troops were teleported in – and thank the Steel because the Coursers weren’t minded to lay down their arms.

            People in white tunics and coats lay themselves down as black-clad hunter-killers clashed with soldiers in power armour, their world now chaos and conflict. Arthur found himself distantly pitying them as he used Final Judgment to mow down the Gen-2s that arrived as backup. Most of them didn’t understand what they were doing was wrong because they didn’t know better.

            An evacuation notice sounded and the Elder sighed. Sparrow was trying to save as many civilians as she could. While he understood why she felt that way, it meant things would be trouble for Danse and his chapter later.

            Or maybe they would take Madison’s route. He’d eventually find out.

            They fought their way to Advanced Systems with casualties on both sides, but the Institute had sealed the door. “The Director’s quarters,” Arthur said, remembering Allie Filmore’s information. He hoped her husband and child were amongst those who surrendered.

            It was across the courtyard and Arthur ran up the ramp. By the Steel, he hoped Sparrow was there.

            “-Do you know what you’ve done?” demanded a man just upstairs. “You’ve doomed humanity!”

            “No, Shaun,” Sparrow replied with a sigh. “Humanity will muddle along as it always has.”

            “You’ve done this for what? Some archaic code of ethics?”

            “No. Because there’s life and hope on the surface. Your children will learn that in time, as will the survivors.”

            “You’ve sentenced nearly two hundred people and five hundred Gen-3 synths to death,” Shaun said heavily.

            “And you would have murdered thousands. What was it you said? ‘Sacrifice the one to save the many’? Well, I’m giving the several hundred a fighting chance to survive in order to preserve thousands more.”

            “You’re twisting my words!”

            “I’m a _lawyer_. What the hell did you expect?”

            Arthur had to bite back a very inappropriate grin as he strode into the Director’s Quarters.

            Sparrow was clad in the Institute’s uniform and facing an old man who was frail with ill health.

            “And so the barbarians have come to sack the halls of learning,” Shaun Finlay said bitterly. “Does it make you proud, Maxson, to feel like some Viking warlord destroying Rome?”

            “Vandals,” Sparrow corrected. “It was the Vandals that sacked Rome.”

            “A most appropriate name. Well, Maxson, give the Director of the Institute the courtesy of an answer!”

            “Your infiltrators shouldn’t have killed a Sentinel of the Brotherhood of Steel,” Maxson answered grimly. “Otherwise, we may never have known of your existence.”

            “If they’d done a half-competent job, it would have been you dead,” Shaun countered before giving his mother a glare. “What did he offer you to betray your own family?”

            “I was betrayed the day your father left me behind,” Sparrow said sadly. “I’m sorry, Shaun. You were lost the day you were stolen from the Vault.”

            “I was saved!” Shaun cried out. “They raised me better than you would have.”

            “Probably,” Sparrow admitted wearily. “You didn’t deserve me as your mother or Nate Finlay as your father.”

            “At least he helped me. I suppose this barbarian murdered him.” Shaun regarded Arthur scornfully.

            “Actually, a man who lost a hand because of his brutality killed him,” Arthur rasped. “Sparrow, we need Advanced Systems opened up.”

            “Understood.” She headed for the stairs past a cell that looked like a miniature child’s bedroom.

            “I suppose you think you’re a hero,” Shaun observed bitterly.

            “No.” Arthur regarded the broken old man before him with distant pity. “Your father and I were not dissimilar in our approach to conflict.”

            The Director snorted in contempt. “Barbarian.”

            “Perhaps. I am a lord of war.” Arthur studied Shaun. “But there is peace in my wake. Those who surrender won’t be executed out of hand but instead-“

            A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye alerted him to the Courser at his back; instincts honed by years of battle sent Arthur diving to the ground as a blue beam of light singed the top of his head.

            It struck Shaun directly in the chest. The Director of the Institute touched the smoking hole and collapsed.

            “Father?” the Courser asked in dull shock.

            Then a look of implacable hatred crossed its face. “I will kill you and show your soldiers your lifeless-“

            Sparrow yelled a series of words and the Courser went limp.

            “Recall code – oh Mary, Jesus and Joseph!” Sparrow put her hands to her mouth when she saw the dead Shaun.

            “It was the Courser trying to kill me,” Arthur told her. “Is Advanced Systems open?”

            “Yes.” Her eyes were bright with tears.

            “Then report to Brandis and Ingram at the teleporter room.” He would worry about MacCready later.

            “Yes, Elder.” She knelt down, closed her son’s eyes with a gentle hand, and left the room.

            Arthur followed her. It was time to end this, once and for all.

…

There were more synths, of course, but the Brotherhood cut through them. Soldiers died – no campaign was without cost – but in the end, they attached the bomb to the fusion reactor and teleported out of the Institute.

            Arthur detonated the bomb and Cambridge vanished in blue-white light. The Police Station had been evacuated after Mass Fusion, where they stood.

            “Ochone ochone,” Sparrow said sadly. “I’m sorry, Shaun, there was no other way.”

            _No, there wasn’t,_ Arthur agreed silently. He had shown more mercy than he expected to. But his mission was accomplished.

            “It’s done,” he sighed. He should feel more triumphant but instead a leaden cloak of exhaustion hung over his shoulders. “Ad Victoriam.”

            “Ad Victoriam,” Sparrow echoed. “And may God have mercy on our souls.”

…

Liberty Prime was lost and it was part of the reason why the Brotherhood had taken the Institute so easily, as the organisation’s synths had been sent after it. Arthur had the robot’s name inscribed in the Records of the Fallen. It deserved that much for its service in saving the Wasteland twice.

            The Gunners devolved into a series of squabbling bands of raiders that were easily mopped up by Preston and the Brotherhood. Much to Arthur’s surprise, many of the junior recruits of the mercenaries had been allowed to become Initiates under the former Minuteman’s eye as they’d joined up to protect their settlements. When Garvey returned to the Castle, still holding the title of Sentinel, he’d achieved a sort of peace with himself. The man would bear scars from the war… but he was healing. And that was no bad thing for him or Danse, if Arthur was reading the signs right.

            Sparrow took bereavement leave and for a solid panicked month, Arthur didn’t know where she was. She came back with a third cousin roughly twelve generations removed, a foul-mouthed brawler named Cait who made a lewd proposition to the Elder in Irish he didn’t really want translated. He only knew it was lewd because of the blush on Sparrow’s cheeks.

            Pointed messages came back from the western Elders on the progress of his courtship with the Vault Dweller. Arthur ignored them because he was too busy helping Danse and Preston with sorting out the abandoned Gunner-controlled settlements, putting the Institute scientists on trial, and the other minutiae of ending a war. Besides, Sparrow had withdrawn into herself, even in the company of Cait. He didn’t know how to bridge the distance between them.

            Finally, Arthur took a deep breath and went looking for her. The thought of anyone else as Lady Maxson was… troubling. Sparrow was the perfect complement to his abilities and possessed more compassion than he did. He wanted to read her Roman love poetry, accompanying each word with a kiss. He wanted to discuss literature with her. He wanted to take her to New Vegas and the NCR, to show that the Wasteland had its own civilisations.

            Hell, if she wanted to call him uncomplimentary things in Latin, he’d settle for that too. Just so long as she was in his life.


	15. No Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. You can has smut now. Last chapter.

 

Sparrow had destroyed one family but gained another.

            A month of searching and grieving for what should have been found an actual blood relative in the form of the brawler Cait. Quintessentially Killian with her fine bones, long limbs and auburn hair, the clanswoman was surprised to discover a third cousin twelve generations removed. It took some time but… they were kin now. Cait was even considering joining the Brotherhood of Steel.

            Ruminating on the past brought no answers or closure. But Sparrow had avoided thinking of the future because, pre-War or now, she’d never believed in one.

            Yet here was one, staring her in the face.

            The foredeck was a good place to brood. The wind was chill and clean this far up and she could see a fair portion of the Commonwealth. Few people came up here, preferring the confines of the Prydwen or the comfort of the Airport barracks, and that was fine with Sparrow.

            The sunset was spectacular, red-gold with an edge of green where the Glowing Sea bled into the sky. For all its bleakness, there were beautiful places in the Wasteland and over the past month, Sparrow had learned to appreciate them.

            She was so absorbed in her own reverie that Arthur joining her on the foredeck went unnoticed until the shadows bled charcoal and lilac across the landscape below. Diamond City was a blaze of harsh white light and Cambridge glowed sinister green. Neriah was apparently elated at the chance to study newly irradiated territory. That woman scared Sparrow sometimes.

            “It took me a while to find you,” the Elder rasped when she turned around to see him there. “I’ve missed you this past month.”

            An automatic jibe leapt to Sparrow’s lips but she shoved it back down. During her month on the road she’d realised that Arthur struggled to articulate his feelings because emoting wasn’t something a warlord did. He’d been sent across a continent to be toughened up; he’d been forced to kill at the age of twelve, thirteen and fifteen, all the while making plans to acquire the leadership of the Brotherhood of Steel for its own good. Childhood in the Wasteland, if it was a thing, generally ended too soon. Or perhaps in pre-War it had lasted too long. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

            “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be gone so long, it just… happened.” Wandering back up to Sanctuary and making her peace with Codsworth and Vault 111, thanking the Abernathies for giving her the skills to survive in the Wasteland, hunting down Cait and the synthetic reincarnation of Nick Valentine and helping them find closure… “I came back.”

            Maybe it was easier to have closure when you weren’t a relic of a time long past.

            “You did.” Arthur approached, a bulwark of darkness in the dying light. “And I’m glad of it.”

            “So am I,” Sparrow replied. “It’s hard to have the appearance of courting when there’s only one person on the Prydwen.”

            Arthur chuckled. “I would make appearance reality. We complement each other well and none can doubt your loyalty now.”

            “That’s what I enjoy about your company, Arthur. You manage to take the romance out of everything,” Sparrow observed wryly, drawing on a previous comment he’d made about her.

            “I don’t have the words you deserve in English,” he murmured, closing in to bracket her with his strong arms. “I had to do a little research, but I found something more appropriate in Latin.”

            “Oh?”

“Karissima, noli tardare

studeamus nos nunc amare

sine te non potero vivere

iam decet amorem perficere.”

_My dearest, do not hesitate! Let us now study the art of love. Without you I cannot live. Now is the time to perfect our love!_

Sparrow automatically translated the verse in between Arthur pressing a kiss to lips, cheek, the side of her neck with each muttered word. “ _Iam dulcis amica_ , from the Cambridge songs,” she gasped.

            “Yes. Quinlan feels it’s borderline blasphemy to use the language of science and technology for something so sentimental as love poetry.”

            “He’d better not read anything by Marcus Valerius Martialis then,” Sparrow observed dryly. “Or Catullus. Catullus was rather raunchy.”

            Arthur’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “We’ll need to find him a copy and see what happens.”

            Sparrow laughed. “You’re terrible!”

            “You’re the one who introduced me to Roman love poetry,” Arthur countered. “Sparrow…”

            She kissed him, silencing the words in his mouth. Arthur moaned and pulled her against him hungrily.

            It appeared that he’d been reading more than Roman love poetry – or simply that saying some truly filthy things in Latin turned him on. By the time her uniform was halfway off, her breasts bared, Arthur had dry-humped himself against her belly and made a mess in his pants the laundry Initiates were going to _love_ cleaning. “I’m sorry,” he said anxiously.

            “You’ve never done this before.” A statement, not a question.

            “No.”

            “Good thing that happened because it would have ended distressingly fast for the both of us.”

            Arthur stared at her and then laughed, half in relief and half in true amusement. “I’m guessing you know what to do.”

            “I didn’t go to my marriage a virgin, if that’s what you mean.” Sparrow allowed herself a wicked little chuckle. “In fact, when I was in college… I used to thank the handsome young soldier boys for their service. Personally. Frequently. With much enjoyment all around.”

            “So you _do_ know what to do, praise the Steel,” Arthur said fervently. “Teach me. Please.”

            “What do you like when you masturbate?” Sparrow asked frankly, reaching for the lapels of his battlecoat to slide it from broad shoulders. “To pleasure someone else, you should know how to please yourself.”

            “I like to press down on my… my cock a little to make myself last longer.” From the sound of his voice, Arthur was surely blushing.

            “When I have sex of any kind, I need clitoral stimulation to orgasm,” Sparrow confided to lessen his embarrassment.

            “I know what the clitoris is from the talk every Squire gets at twelve,” Arthur admitted sheepishly.

            “Thank the Lord for that. Let me tell you, Arthur, too many men seem to think that foreplay’s like Tuckey’s fried mirelurk eggs – two minutes on each side and served with a greasy sausage. Hard and fast can be pleasant but…” She pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’ve always preferred slow and steady.”

            “I can do that,” he promised.

            “Praise the Lord.” Her hands wandered down his uniform, releasing catches and unfastening zippers, and soon he was as bare-chested as she.

            Skin against skin, chest hair rubbing sensitive nipples, and Sparrow wondered why she hadn’t done this in such a long time. Arthur was a quick learner and the rasp of his beard as he nuzzled the join between neck and shoulder more erotic than she believed possible. When his mouth found her breasts…

            Their uniforms eventually wound up on the foredeck, the cool night wind caressing heated skin as they learned each other’s bodies. Arthur was hard as steel _everywhere_ , as Sparrow discovered when she cupped his cock and he bucked into her hand desperately. A decent size and thickness too.

            His fingers parted her cunt lips, thumb brushing against her clit, and Sparrow was startled into an orgasm.

            “Soft and wet,” Arthur muttered, thick fingers sliding inside. “This is supposed to happen, right?”

            “Arthur, if a woman’s dry after foreplay, you’re doing it wrong,” Sparrow told him matter-of-factly. “You’re doing it very, very right.”

            “Oh good.” He sounded relieved. “Can we please…?”

            “Yes.”

            Fucking against the foredeck wall, legs locked around Arthur’s waist, was an experience Sparrow had never expected to have. It was a little quicker than she liked but he was young and still learning. He brought her to orgasm again afterwards with hand in her cunt and mouth on a breast, her moaning his name into his shoulder. She didn’t know if the flight deck staff would hear but…

            It could be awkward. Until they were married.

            Sated and sticky, Arthur rested his forehead against hers, still inside her. Sparrow idly wondered if he would like to try for a third round. Pity the foredeck wall’s metal was digging into her back.

            “Thank you,” he sighed.

            “No, thank _you_. It’s been too long in more ways than one.” She kissed his nose. “I _suppose_ we can make the appearance of courting a reality.”

            “Good. The other Elders are getting… insistent.” Arthur sighed again. “I can only ignore them for so long.”

            Sparrow rubbed his cheek soothingly and he leaned into the touch. God but he was starved for closeness, affection, kindness…

            “Any way we could run away to New Vegas and get married? That’s what we’d sometimes do in the pre-War times.”

            “I think our best option’s going to be Diamond City,” Arthur chuckled.

            “Pastor Clements is booked up until mid-spring,” Sparrow said with a sigh. “Looks like you’ll have to court me a little longer.”

            Arthur Maxson actually snickered. “Yes. I want to learn about this raunchy Roman poetry you keep talking about.”

            “At this rate, I’ll be charged with corrupting the youth,” Sparrow murmured. “They’d do that in Rome, you know. Greece too.”

            “…Greece?”

            Sparrow found herself smiling. “They were the classical civilisation that preceded the Romans. Of course, the Romans stole a lot from them. You’ve heard of Heracles, Zeus, Aristotle, Thucydides, Sophocles…”

            “Ah.” Arthur chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it ‘corrupting the youth’. I would call it ‘expanding my education’.”

            “When the Squires figure out how to say ‘Proctor Quinlan’s a poopy head’ in Latin…”

            “You’re horrible.” Arthur reluctantly disentangled himself from her.

            “This from the man who wants me to recite Catullus in front of Proctor Quinlan.”

            “I would like to broaden the Proctor of the Order of the Quill’s horizons,” Arthur said piously.

            They got dressed in companionable silence. Sparrow felt relaxed, deep in her bones, something she’d never experienced before. She felt safe and wanted.

            Was this love? Or maybe it was homecoming. There was so much that Sparrow didn’t know.

            “We will be leaving in a few months,” Arthur said as he shrugged on his battlecoat. “Danse and Preston will need to handle the clean up on their own so that the Commonwealth chapter can stand.”

            “Where to?” Sparrow asked.

            “The Citadel for everything to be logged in the archives there. Then across to the Mojave and Lost Hills to do the same.” Arthur’s eyes shone in the darkness. “There will be little settling down for those on the Prydwen. As High Elder, I will be travelling constantly.”

            Sparrow looked down at the Commonwealth. “I’ve never left Massachusetts in my life but for the trip to the Capital Wasteland with you. I think I can stand a little wandering.”

            He embraced her, resting his chin on her head. “You will see New Vegas. And the NCR. I want to set up more chapters – there’s rumours of lost Brothers in the Midwest and down in Texas. There may be more conflict…”

            “Will be,” Sparrow corrected. “The Wasteland is rarely peaceful.”

            “Yes,” he agreed. “But I want to see it a little more like the Capital Wasteland before we leave this mortal coil.”

            “We will,” she promised.

…

“Remind me again why we prayed to the Lord for us to be fruitful and multiply?”

            Arthur grinned at Sparrow’s exasperated comment after their youngest grandchild splatted mashed tato on a long-suffering Codsworth with wicked accuracy. He could see that girl being very good with grenades one day…

            Four children – twins Johnathon and Killian, their younger sister Etain and the surprise of Sparrow’s middle age Seamus – and eleven grandchildren later, the Maxson dynasty was in no danger of dying out. Jessica, the eldest grandchild, was even expecting her own! Some referred to the family as a horde (notably Sonia Garvey, the adopted daughter of Preston and Danse) but that was a little unfair. It was only the twins who made it seem like a horde.

            “You prayed,” he corrected mildly.

            “Days like this, mum, I rather wish you weren’t Catholic,” Codsworth observed wryly. The Mr Handy had quite the personality and had been a godsend when Sparrow brought him up to the Prydwen on finding out she was pregnant. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you and sir were trying to populate a chapter singlehandedly.”

            “Not a chapter. Maybe the Council of Elders,” Arthur admitted ruefully.

            Someone knocked on the door to their private quarters. These days, the Prydwen was in the hands of Etain and her husband Jack Lee. Sonia was running the Commonwealth Republic these days, having eschewed the Brotherhood for politics after the death of Preston and the disappearance of Danse. Not knowing what happened to his oldest friend haunted Arthur – but he couldn’t send soldiers after someone who’d ventured north into the wilds of Maine.

            “Lancer-Captain Maxson-Lee’s here with Squire Frances, sir,” reported the Initiate.

            “Understood.” Arthur nodded to the young woman, who saluted and left.

            “So, I was thinking, you dump the title of High Elder on some unsuspecting victim and we run away to New Vegas,” Sparrow suggested. “Not the twins though.”

            “ _Not_ the twins,” Arthur agreed with a laugh. Johnathon and Killian were brawlers and squad commanders but… not politicians or warlords. They were Star Paladins in the Mojave under Veronica Santangelo and between them, managed to damn near repopulate the chapter there!

            Seamus was happily a Scribe Initiate under Head Scribe Neriah. Unmarried as of yet but with Killian’s eldest daughter having a child, no rush for their youngest. Arthur had let his children find their own mates and had been rewarded with happy couples and a clan of grandchildren.

            He looked at Sparrow. Nearing sixty, she was silver-haired and still lovely. But her bones ached and joints were swollen. The rads hadn’t been kind to her either – she’d gone through two bouts of cancer, only saved by the Brotherhood’s superior medical technology – and it wasn’t a matter of _if_ she developed another bout, but _when_. Neriah believed that the third time would kill her.

            “I might just give it to Jack,” Arthur said after a moment’s silence. “He’s acting High Elder in all but name.”

            “Good idea,” Sparrow said. Then she sighed. “Arthur, do you regret anything?”

            His answer was immediate. “No. Do you?”

            “Now and then.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “But I don’t regret you…”

            A splash of mashed tato landed on her uniform.

            “…Or the spawn. Most of the time.”

            Arthur grinned again and took his wife into his arms. He’d lived beyond the wars of his youth to find a quiet retirement in the Capital Wasteland. The peace between conflicts was getting longer – the area between the Capital Wasteland and the Commonwealth was mostly settled nowadays – and maybe Jessica’s firstborn might just see what an extended period of peace was.

            He sighed. He was a weapon. A warlord. But he was also a husband and father.

            War, war never changed. But the peace in between always did.


End file.
